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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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T 


THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY; 

AND   OTHER  NOUVELLETTES. 

BY 

MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWOMH. 


"Mrs.  South  worth  is  the  finest  authoress  in  the  country.  Her  style  is  forcible  and 
bold.  There  i*  an  exciting  interest  throughout  all  her  compositions,  which  rcnderj 
them  the  most  popular  novels  in  the  English  language." — .\ettt  JVA-  Mirror. 

••  Mrs.  Southworth  is  the  best  American  writer  of  the  age."—  Pliili.  MfrcJiant. 

"  S-f-e  has  no  superior ;  and  there  is  a  chasteness  and  purity  in  all  that  she  write?  vvhi.-b 
ccmiu'-iirls  her  to  the  approbation  of  every  ihoujjMful  inind." — BaUiniore  JiepuUicMt 

••  She  is  a  woman  of  brilliant  genius."—  Olive  Branch. 

"She  is  the  best  notion  writer  in  the  country."—  HuffjJo  Ex]>rtss. 

"She  is  the  most  original  and  talented  of  living  female  writers." — fkililic  Ledger. 


$  I)  H  a  ^  e  I  p  1)  i  a : 

T.    B     PETKHSON    AND    BROTHERS, 

80S    CHEST.NUT    STREET. 


COPYKIGHT:  — 1875. 


MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH'S  COMPLETE  WORK& 

EACH  WORK  IS  COMPLETE  IN  ONE  LARGE  DUODECIMO  VOLUME. 

SELF-RAISE U;  or,  FROM  THE  DEPTHS.    Sequel  to  Ishmael. 
ISHMAEL;  or.    IN  THE  DEPTHS.     (Being  Self-Made.) 
THE  MOTHER-IN-LA  W;  or,  MARRIED  IN  HASTE. 

'1  LIE  PHA  NTOM   WEDDING  ;  or,  Fall  of  House  of  /  lint. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;  or,  MIRIAM,  THE  AVENGER. 
A  BEAUTIFUL  FIEND;  or,  THROUGH  THE  FIRE. 
VICTOR'S  TRIUMPH.      A  Sequel  to  "A  Beautiful  Fiind.' 

'1HE  FATAL  MARRIAGE;  or,  Orville  Devtlle. 
FAIR  PLAY,-  or,  BRITOMARTE,  the  MAN  HATER. 
HOW   HE     WON   HER.      A    Sequel   to    "Fair    Play." 
THE  CHANGED  BRIDES;  or,   Winning  Her  Way. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FA  TE.      Sequel  to  "The  Changed  Brides.' 
CRUEL  AS  THE   GRAVE;  or,  Hallow-Eve  Mystery. 

TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE.     A  Sequel  to  "  Cruel  as  the  Grave.' 
THE  CHRISTMAS   GUEST,-  or,  The  Crime  and  the  Curst 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  ISLE;  or,  The  Island  Princess. 
THE  LOST  HEIR  OF  LINLITHGOW;  or,  The  Brothers. 
A  NOBLE  LORD.     Sequel  to  "The  Lost  Heir  of  Liulithgow." 
THE  FAMILY  DOOM;  or,  the  SIN  OF  A   COUNTESS 
THE  MA  I  DEN  WID  O  W.     Sequel  to  ' '  The  Family  Doom: 
THE   GIPSY'S  PROPHECY,-  or,  The  Bride  of  an  Evening. 
THE  FORTUNE  SEEKER;  or,  Astrea,  the  Bridal  Day. 
THE   THREE  BEAUTIES;  or,  Shannondale. 

ALL  WORTH  ABBEY;  or,  Eudora. 

FALLEN  PRIDE;  or,  THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LOVE. 
INDIA;  or,  THE  PEARL   OF  PEARL  RIVER. 
VI VIA;  or,  THE  SECRET  OF  POWER. 

THE   WIDOW'S  SON;  or,  Left  Alone. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER;  or,  The  Children  of  the  Me 
BRIDE   OF  LLEWELLYN.     Sequel  to  "The  Widow's  Son.1 
THE  BRIDAL  EVE;  or,  Rose  Elmer. 

THE  PRItfCE   OF  PARKNESS;  or,  Ilicknry  Hall. 
THE  DESERTED   WIFE.  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD. 

THE  L  OS T  HEIRESS.  THE  SPE  C TR E  L  0  Vh R. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY.  7 HE  FATAL  SECRET. 

'THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON.       THE  TWO  S/STERS. 
THE  ARTIST'S  LOVE.  LOVE'S  LABOR    WON. 

MYSTERY  OF  DARK  HOLLOW.       RETRIBU210N. 

Above  Books  are  Bound  in  Morocco  Cloth.    Price  $1.50  Each. 


(3^*  Mrs.  Southworth's  works  are  for  sale  by  nil  Booksellers,  or  copiet 

of  any  one,  or  more  of  them,  will  be  sent  to  any  one,  j>os!age  prepaid,  of 

free  of  freight,  on  remitting  the  price  of  the  ones  wanttd,  to  the  publishers, 

T.  B.  PETERSON  $•  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


TO 

MISS    CHARLOTTE    LECOMPTE    NEVITTE, 

OP    MISSISSIPPI, 

€ljt5  Unlam*  is  cflMflnflhlij  insmbfir, 

BY    HER    SISTER, 

TEE    AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


in             THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY, 31 

W 

g  THE   MARRIED   SHREW;    A    SEQUEL   TO    "THE   WIFE'S 

VICTORY," 67 

SYBIL  BROTHERTON;  OR,  THE  TEMPTATION, 85 

3             THE  IRISH  REFUGEE, , 155 

§             EVELINE  MURRAY;  OR,  THE  FINE  FIGURE, 193 

§  THE   THREE   SISTERS;  OR,  NEW  YEAR  IN  THE  LITTLE 

ROUGH-CAST  HOUSE, 207 

ANNIE  GREY;  OR,  NEIGHBOURS'  PRESCRIPTIONS,    .    ,    ,  275 

ACROSS  THE  STREET;  A  NEW  YEAR'S  STORY 30ft 


449108 


PREFACE. 


Tfi£  author  does  not  know  how,  better  to  introduce 
this  book  to  her  friends  than  by  telling  them  its  short 
history. 

The  nouvellettes  that  form  the  collection  were  written — 
each  to  illustrate  that  distinct  principle  of  Christian  ethics 
or  social  philosophy,  indicated  by  the  text  of  Scripture 
selected  as  its  motto. 

That  they  were  the  very  first  productions  of  the  au- 
thor's pen — composed  in  the  midst  of  sickness,  privation, 
toil,  and  great  sorrow — is  her  apology  for  their  numerous 
imperfections.  That  they  were,  nevertheless,  warmly  wel- 
comed, and  extensively  copied  by  the  literary  and  Chris- 
tian journals,  and  that  their  publication  in  book  form 
has  been  called  for,  is  her  excuse  for  now  collecting 
and  presenting  them  in  this  manner 


THE   WIFE'S  VICTORY. 


The  husband  is  head  of  the  -wife,  even  as  Christ  is  head  of  the 
Church ;  Therefore,  as  the  Church  is  subject  to  Christ,  so  let  the 
wives  be  to  their  own  husbands  in  everything. — EPUESIAXS,  v.  23,  24. 

Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 

Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband. — SHAKSPEAKB. 

What  thou  bid'st 

Unargned  I  obey ;  BO  God  ordains. 
God  is  thy  law ;  thou  mine. — MILTON. 

"  I  WOULD  not  have  him,  though  he  owned  all  the  mines  of 
Golconda,"  said  bright  Kate  Gleason  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  Lindal 

"  And  why  not,  pray '("  said  gentle  Mary  Lindal. 

"  Oh  !  because  he  has  got  such  a  horrible  temper." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  By  a  great  many  signs ;  by  the  shape  of  his  head  and  tho 
colour  of  his  hair,  the  gknce  of  his  eye,  the  curl  of  his  nose, 
and  the  set  of  his  mouth " 

"Oh  !  stop,  stop,  stop;  of  whom  are  you  speaking?  That 
incomparable  man,  fh  philanthropy  a  Howard,  in  wisdom  a 
Newton,  in  patriotism  a  Washington,  in " 

"  Temper  a  Bluebeard." 

"Kate!  I  will  not  hear  another  word  .of  this.  You  are 
speaking  of — of — "  and  Mary  Lindal  blushed 

(31) 


82  "HE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

"  Out  with  it !  of  Grenville  Dormer  Leslie,  your  f'utura 
husband.  But  I  give  you  fair  warning,  Mary,  that  though 
you  may  feel  a  vocation  to  become  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  I  am  .not 
particularly  inspired  to  play  '  Anne  !  sister  Anne  !'  and  run  tho 
risk  of  catching  my  death  of  cold  by  standing  on  a  windy  tower, 
to  '  see  if  anybody  is  coming,'  when  he  is  about  to  slay  you 
for  your  disobedience." 

"  But  perhaps  I  shall  not  be  disobedient,"  said  Mary. 

"  Perhaps  you  shall  not  be  disobedient,"  repeated  Kate,  with 
a  withering  sneer.  "  Well,  for  my  part,  when  /  ain  married, 
if  ever  my  husband  ventures  to  lay  a  command  on  me,  I  shall 
make  a  point  of  breaking  it,  at  whatever  cost  of  convenience, 
ay  of  asserting  my  independence." 
Not  if  you  love,  Kate." 

"  Either  way,  either  way.  Now,  I  like  Lem  Dunn  very 
well ;  and  if  neither  of  us  change  our  minds,  we  may  be  mar- 
ried when  he  returns  from  sea;  but  fancy  Lem  Dunn  playing 
husband  a  la  Grand  Turque,  and  daring  to  say,  'you  shall' 
and  '  you  shall  not !'  really,  if  I  were  in  a  good  humour  I 
should  laugh  in  his  face,  and  if  in  a  bad  one,  I  should  be 
apt  to  box  his  ears." 

"  I  must  believe  you  are  jesting,  Catherine." 

"  Then  I  will  be  as  serious  as  His  Eminence  Archbishop 
Leslie  himself,  and  say  that  I  really  cannot  see  why  we  women 
should  be  called  upon  to  '  honour  and  obey'  so  implicitly,  un- 
less we  could  be  first  convinced  of  their  superior  excellence 
by  whom  such  honour  and  obedience  are  claimed." 

"  We  are  not.  We  should  be  first  convinced  of  men's  su- 
periority, before  we  give  them  that  '  right  Divine'  to  control 
our  actions  and  destinies,  which  by  all  Christian  and  huroau 
law  is  the  just  prerogative  of  a  husband,  whether  or  not  he  be 
mentally  or  morally  superior  to  his  wife." 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense  1  fiddlestick  !  with  your  Divine  preroga- 
tive and  the  rest  of  it.  If  a  woman  marries  a  fool,  I  suppo,°a 
she  is  bmnd  to  obey  him  1" 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY.  33 

11  When  a  woman  marries  a  man  whom  she  feels  she  cannot 
respect,  she  places  herself  in  a  false  position,  from  which  no- 
thing can  extricate  her;  and,  however  repugnant,  however 
galling  they  may  become,  the  same  duties  of  submission  and 
obedience  are  incumbent  upon  her,  in  all  cases  where  they  do 
not  clash  with  the  laws  of  God.  A  woman,  in  such  a  case, 
is  an  object  of  deep  commiseration,  although,  having  brought 
the  evil  upon  herself,  by  a  desecration  of  all  her  most  holy 
instincts,  she  suffers  but  a  just  and  most  fitting  expiation  of 
her  fault.  I  could  not  love,  and  would  not  give  myself  away 
to  a  man  on  whose  wisdom  I  could  not  rely  as  I>D  God's,  to 
whose  will  I  could  not  submit  as  to  God's." 

"  Idolater !  Would  you  set  up  an  earthly  God,  and  fall  down 
and  worship  him  ?" 

" '  Wives,  submit  yourselves  to  your  husbands  as  to  the 
Lord  !'  There  is  Scripture  for  the  idolatry,  if  you  choosn  to 
call  it  so." 

"  Pshaw !  If  you  were  not  talking  foolishly,  you  would  be 
talking  wickedly.  'Satan  can  quote  Scripture  for  his  pur 
pose.' " 

"  So  he  can.  I  am  now  quite  convinced  of  that  fact.  But 
do  not  let  us  trifle  with  such  holy  and  beautiful  mysteries,  dear 
Kate.  There  is  another  text  of  Scripture  to  the  same  pur- 
pose  " 

"Oh,  yes!   There  are  hundreds;  pray  don't  recite  them." 

"  Just  this  one,  Kate,  I  love  it  so  much.  '  The  head  of  the 
woman  is  man;  the  head  of  the  man  is  Christ;  and  the  head 
of  Christ  is  God.'  Is  it  not  a  lovely  chain,  a  beautiful  climax, 
from  weakness  to  Omnipotence;  like  Jacob's  ladder  from  earth 
to  heaven  ?" 

"  Sweet  Providence  !  You  have  put  my  brains  in  a  complete 
whirl,  with  heaven  and  earth,  and  chains  and  ladders,  and 
heads  and  husbands ;  but  out  of  the  chaos  one  fact  and  feeling 
itands  very  di3tinctly.  If  Lem  Dunn  expects  any  such  sub- 


84  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

ordination  from  me,  he  will  find  himself  very  much  mistaken/ 
but  be  is  not  so  presuming,  poor  Lena  Dunn  " 

"  I  think  you  will  find  yourself  mistaken  in  your  estimate 
of  his  character  and  expectations." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so  j  in  that  case,  I  shall  only  have  a  little 
more  trouble  in  breaking  him  in.  But  suppose  now,  only  for 
argument,  that  you  are  deceived  in  Leslie ;  suppose  his  temper 
to  be  violent  ?"  ' 

"  I  will  take  care  not  to  arouse  it " 

"  His  will  unbending  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  waste  my  strength  nor  risk  my  peace  by  seek- 
ing to  bend  it." 

"  His  nature  selfish  ?" 

"  Mcthinks,  as  I  love  and  esteem  him  more  highly  than  my- 
self, I  should  only  unite  with  him  in  his  self-worship." 

"  His  heart  and  mind  unprincipled  and  depraved  ?" 

"  Impossible !  impossible  I"  exclaimed  Mary  indignantly. 
"  I  will  not  for  a  single  instant  suppose  such  a  thing,  even  for 
argument's  sake.  I  have  seen  my  error  in  permitting  you  to  go 
on  so  long.  Leslie  has  none  of  the  bad  qualities  you  have 
named.  He  is  every  way  worthy  of  the  highest  esteem." 

"  And  if  he  were  not  so  ?" 

"  If  I  were  his  wife,  my  duties  would  not  be  less  incumbent 
upon  me — would  not  be  less  scrupulously  performed.  But  1 
shall  not  find  myself  in  the  degrading  position  of  a  wife  who 
cannot  reverence  her  husband,  in  giving  myself  to  Leslie.  I 
obey  a  Divine  instinct  that  will  not  mislead  me;  in  loving 
him,  I  shall  .offer  the  best  worship,  and  in  obeying  him  the 
most  acceptable  service  to  the  Deity." 

Mary  and  Catherine  Gleason  had  lost  their  parents  during 
their  infancy,  and  had  become  the  charge  of  their  grandfather 
old  Captain  Gleason,  a  retired  merchant.  At  the  time  Captain 
Gleason  received  his  granddaughters  into  his  house,  he  was 
ivourning  the  loss  of  his  younger  son,  who  was  supposed  to 
have  perished  at  sea,  on  his  passage  home  from  Europe.  Th« 


THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  35 

snip  in  which  he  was  to  have  taken  passage  had  never  been 
heard  of  since  her  setting  sail  from  Liverpool,  and  was  now 
believed  to  have  been  wrecked.  Years  flew  by,  and  no  clue 
was  obtained  to  the  fate  of  the  lost  ship  or  the  lost  son. 

Mary  Gleason,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  had,  in  obedience  to 
her  grandfather,  given  her  hand  to  Mr.  Lindal,  a  wealthy  mer- 
chant, some  twenty  years  her  senior.  In  the  second  year  of 
her  marriage,  she  became  the  mother  of  a  lovely  little  girl. 
Soon  after  the  birth  of  the  little  Sylvia,  the  failure  and  death 
of  Mr.  Lindal  left  Mary  again  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  her 
grandfather,  who  received  her  and  her  child  with  the  deepest 
sympathy  and  affection.  Little  Sylvia  soon  became  the  espe- 
cial pet  and  plaything  of  the  whole  household. 

Although  Mary  Lindal  had  faithfully  discharged  her  dutiea 
as  a  wife,  she  had  never  loved  her  husband,  except  as  a  friend. 
Her  whole  affections  centered  upon  her  child,  the  little  Sylvia. 
She  was  her  constant  companion,  in  doors  and  out  doors,  in 
parlour,  chamber,  and  street,  by  day ;  and  at  night  she  slept 
encircled  in  her  arms,  pressed  to  her  bosom.  At  the  age  of 
lour  years,  Sylvia  had  been  attacked  with  a  violent  and  con- 
tagious fever.  No  words  can  describe  the  anguish  of  the 
mother,  as  she  watched,  day  after  day,  and  night  after  night, 
for  weeks,  beside  the  bed  of  the  little  sufferer ;  no  pen  can 
portray  the  joy  when,  at  last,  her  darling  was  pronounced  out 
of  danger. 

Mrs.  Lindal  was  very  beautiful,  graceful,  and  accomplished, 
and  a  co-heiress  with  her  sister  Catherine ;  consequently,  she 
was  much  followed  and  flattered.  Notwithstanding  her  nume- 
rous admirers,  and  some  very  eligible  offers,  the  seventh  year 
of  her  widowhood  had  passed  away,  and  she  was  still  unmar- 
ried. In  the  mean  time,  Catherine  Gleason  had  grown  up  to 
womanhood,  more  radiantly  beautiful  than  her  sister  had  ever 
been. 

At  length,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  Mrs.  Lindal 
taoamr  acquainted  with  Mr.  Leslie,  the  subject  of  the  convcrsa- 


36  THE     WIFE'S     VICTOR  T. 

tion  with  which  this  sketch  opens.  Mr.  Leslie  was  a  man  of 
great  personal  attractions,  pure  morals,  and  distinguished 
talents.  Mary  Lindal  ever  listened  to  his  brilliant  conversa- 
tion with  delighted  attention.  Convinced  by  his  clear-sighted 
views  and  able  exposition  of  truth,  she  had  insensibly  acquired 
a  habit  of  shaping  her  opinions  by  his  own.  There  was  one 
circumstance  about  their  acquaintance  that  peculiarly  attracted 
Mary.  It  was  this :  He  never  flattered  her,  never  by  any 
chance  paid  her  a  compliment,  excepting  this — the  most,  the 
only  acceptable  one,  of  constantly  seeking  her  society. 

I  think  it  was  that  agreeable  giber,  Rochefoucault,  who 
somewhere  asserted  that  any  woman  may  be  safely  flattered 
on  any  subject,  from  the  profundity  of  her  understanding  to 
the  exquisite  taste  of  her  fan.  Without  venturing  to  differ 
from  such  authority,  I  will  simply  assert  that  Mary  Liudal 
was  an  exception  to  this  rule. 

At  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth's  acquaintance,  Grenville 
Dormer  Leslie  and  Mary  Lindal  were  married,  and  took  pos- 
session of  a  handsome  house,  in  a  fashionable  quarter  of  the 
city. 

An  event  occurred  soon  after  their  marriage,  that  greatly 
pained  the  affectionate  heart  of  Mary.  This  was  the  death 
of  her  grandfather.  The  old  gentleman  had  made  a  will,  leav- 
ing his  property  equally  divided  between  the  sisters,  Mary  and 
Catherine.  This  property,  however,  as  is  frequently  the  case, 
was  not  half  so  large  as  had  been  reported,  and  his  grand- 
daughters inherited  only  about  twenty  thousand  dollars  apiece. 
A  few  moments  before  his  death,  while  holding  little  Sylvia's 
hand  within  his  own,  Captain  Grleason  turned  his  dim  eyes  on 
Leshj  and  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  this  poor  child, 
Leslie ;  if  time  were  allowed  me,  I  would  alter  my  will,  giv- 
ing her  mother's  share  of  the  property  to  her  at  her  mother's 
doath,  or  perhaps  at  her  own  marriage.  You  are  wealthy, 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY.  37 

Leslie,  and  your  children,  if  you  shall  have  any,  will  be  hand- 
somely provided  for,  while  poor  Sylvia " 

"  Shall  fare  as  one  of  my  own,"  said  Leslie. 

"  I  believe  you,  and  I  thank  you;  now  call  Mary." 

Leslie  summoned  his  wife. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  dying  man,  as  she  came  up  to  the  bedside, 
'  I  leave  you  a  certain  sum ;  I  wish  you  and  Leslie  to  consider 
it  as  intrusted  to  your  care  for  the  future  use  of  Sylvia.  Yon 
will,  of  course,  have  the  use  of  it  for — for  many  years  to 
come."  The  old  man  spoke  with  difficulty.  Turning  his  fast- 
failing  eyes  once  more  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie,  he  added,  "  1 
have  been  so  strangely  thoughtless  of  this  poor  child's  future — 
but  now  promise  to  do  as  I  ask  you."  Mary  promised,  through 
her  tears,  while  Leslie  assured  him  that  his  wishes  should 
be  scrupulously  fulfilled. 

The  old  man  soon  after  breathed  his  last. 

Six  months  after  the  death  of  Captain  Gleason,  Mrs.  Leslie 
and  Catherine  Gleason,  who  was  an  inmate  of  her  house,  were 
eitting  together  in  the  parlour,  engaged  in  needlework,  and 
talking  of  the  expected  return  of  Lieutenant  Lemuel  Dunn, 
the  affianced  husband  of  Catherine,  whose  marriage  was  to  taka 
place  upon  the  promotion  of  the  lieutenant  to  a  captaincy. 
There  was  a  ring  at  the  hall  door,  and  a  few  minutes  after — 

"  Mr.  Gleason"  was  announced. 

Both  ladies  rose  to  receive  him,  looking  strangely  at  each 
other,  and  at  him. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  impossible,  ladies,  that  you  should  remem- 
ber or  recognise  a  relative  who  left  his  native  country  while 
you  were  yet  in  the  nursery.  I  am  Henry  Willis  Gleason,  at 
your  service." 

Mrs.  Leslie  and  Miss  Gleason  stood  speechless  with  surprise 
and  incredulity  for  an  iiistant,  but,  quickly  recovering  their 
self-possession,  greeted  their  new-found  \elaUv  with  the  warm- 
est affection. 


88  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

"But  my  father !  girls,  my  dear  old  father.  Where  is  he  I 
How  is  he  ?"  The  ladies  wept.  At  last,  Catherine  found 
words  to  say — 

"  It  is  six  months  since  grandfather  went  to  Heaven." 

"  Oh !  that  he  had  lived  to  see  this  day !"  exclaimed  Mary. 
"  Oh  !  that  he  could  have  lived  to  be  blessed  in  your  return." 

"  He  believed  me  dead  ?"  questioned  Grleason. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "  for  the  last  ten  years  he  has  believed 
you  dead." 

The  reason  for  hia  protracted  absence  and  apparent  death 
was  now  demanded  and  explained.  It  was  a  long  story,  in 
substance  the  following :  Ten  years  before,  he  had  left  his  na- 
tive shores,  to  make  a  voyage  to  Europe  and  a  tour  of  the  Con- 
tinent. After  having  travelled  over  the  greater  part  of  Europe, 
he  visited  the  city  of  St.  Petersburg  and  the  court  of  Russia, 
where,  after  a  residence  of  some  months,  he  was  so  unfortunate 
as  to  give  offence  in  some  unknown  manner  to  the  Emperor, 
for  which  he  was  banished  to  Siberia  for  a  term  of  ten  years; 
and  these  ten  years  had  actually  been  passed  among  the  ever- 
lasting snows  of  Asiatic  Russia.  Upon  his  return  to  St.  Pe- 
tersburg, after  receiving  his  discharge,  he  met  with  some  tra- 
velling countrymen  of  his  own,  who  furnished  him  with  money 
and  everything  requisite  for  his  comfortable  return  home. 
Gleason  had  but  just  concluded  his  narrative,  when  Leslie  en. 
tered,  wh),  on  being  introduced  to  him,  expressed  the  most 
sincere  satisfaction  at  his  unexpected  return. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  entering  his  wife's  room,  on  the 
morning  suceeding  that  of  Gleason's  arrival,  "Mary,  I  wisb 
to  hold  a  few  moments'  counsel  with  you." 

Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  kindling  eye, 
was  gazing  upon  an  exquisite  picture  upon  the  easel  before  Lei, 
while  the  brush  was  half  raised  in  her  hand  to  give  auothei 
touch  to  the  piece,  did  not  immediately  hear  the  entr  mce  or 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTOUV.  39 

remark  of  her  husband,  and  she  started  with  surprise  and  pa'm, 
as  an  impatient  voice  exclaimed  at  her  side — 

"  I  wish,  madam,  you  would  not  consume  so  much  time 
over  that  paltry  daubing,  nor  become  so  engrossed  in  it  as  to 
be  utterly  unconscious  of  all  that  is  going  on  around  you." 

Mary  instantly  laid  down  her  brush  (and  it  was  years  before 
she  again  resumed  it),  and  turned  with  a  gentle  and  cheerful 
smile  to  listen  to  what  her  husband  had  to  say. 

"  At  the  time  that  Captain  Gleason  made  his  will,  he  sup- 
posed his  son  to  be  deceased,  did  he  not  ?" 

"Yes;  from  the  loss  of  the  ship,  and  as  Uncle  Henry  did 
not  return  or  write." 

"  And,  if  he  had  known  that  his  son  was  living,  he  would, 
of  course,  have  left  him  the  bulk  of  his  property  ?" 

"  Doubtless." 

"  Then  you  must  see,  as  I  do,  that  the  property  should  and 
must  be  restored  to  him,  as  the  rightful  heir." 

"  The  whole  of  it  ?" 

"  Of  course,  the  whole  of  it." 

"  Catherine  will  not  agree  to  it." 

11  Catherine  may  do  as  she  pleasee  with  that  which  she  may 
choose  to  consider  is  justly  as  well  as  legally  her  own,  but  the 
portion  left  to  us  must  be  given  to  the  proper  inheritor." 

"  The  portion  left  to  Sylvia,  you  mean,"  amended  the  mo- 
ther, gently. 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Leslie,  with  cold 
gravity. 

"  Surely  you  remember  your  promise,"  said  Mary. 

"  Surely,  madam,  I  remember  the  promise  given  to  a  dying 
father,  who  little  thought  when  he  exacted  it  that  he  had  a 
living  son,  or  that  the  promise  ever  would  be  urged  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  keeping  that  son  out  of  his  just  inheritance.  I  am 
pained  to  see,  madam,  that  your  feelings  as  a  mother  somewhat 
obscure  your  sense  of  justice.  I  shall  be  glad  to  obtain  your 
2 


4l>  THE     WIFE'S      VICTORY. 

cheerful  cooperation  in  this  matter,  but  if  that  is  impossible 
I  must  act  without  it."  » 

Mary,  who  saw  that  she  had  been  wrong,  and  that  a  cloud 
Lad  gathered  upon  the  brow  of  her  irritable  lord,  hastened 
to  dissipate  it  by  saying,  "  Yes,  my  motherly  love  has  made 
me  wish  to  be  unjust;  forgive  me,  and  do  whatever  seems  to 
you  to  be  right;  my  dear  husband,  I  will  subscribe  to  all." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mary ;  and  now  I  will  confess  to  you 
that  the  giving  up  of  that  money  will  be  as  great  a  sacrifice 
on  my  part  as  it  is  on  yours  in  behalf  of  your  daughter;  for 
just  at  this  time  my  business  is  greatly  embarrassed,  and  the 
use  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  for  a  year  or  so  would  be  of 
incalculable  benefit  to  me.  But  the  sacrifice  must  be  made, 
notwithstanding." 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  made.  You  are  right,  as  you  always  are." 
But  the  child's  interest  was  sacrificed,  not  so  much  to  tha 
mother's  sense  of  justice  as  to  her  wifely  duty — to  her  hus- 
band's will. 

"  Mary  Leslie !"  said  Catherine,  bursting  into  her  sister's 
bedroom,  with  a  heated  and  angry  brow,  "  I  hope  you  have 
not  really  consented  to  sign  away  all  that  property  you  had  in 
trust  for  little  Sylvia  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  quietly. 

"And  why?  why?  why  have  you  made  your  child  a 
beggar  ?" 

"  My  husband  thought  it  right  to  give  up  the  property,  and 
I  obey  his  wishes." 

"  Spaniel  I"  exclaimed  Catherine,  with  a  withering  sneer, 
and  flung  out  of  the  room. 

The  necessary  arrangements  were  soon  made,  and  Gleason 
put  in  possession  of  one-half  the  wealth  of  his  deceased  father. 
Mary  Leslie  saw  that  her  child's  only  chance  of  independence 
was  cut  off  for  ever;  but  she  was  a  loyal  Christian  and  a  loving 
wife,  and  she  reposed  trustingly  under  the  shadow  of  the  good- 
uess  of  God,  and  in  the  righteousness  of  the  husband  to  whom 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY  41 

he  had  given  her.  And  even  though  it  did  sometimes  pain- 
fully cross  her  mind,  that  Leslie  might  have  been  a  little  more 
gentle  with  her,  in  a  controversy  in  which  her  maternal  feelings 
were  so  deeply  involved,  she  considered  that  his  somewhat 
overbearing  temper  was  the  sole  defect  in  an  otherwise  ex- 
cellent character,  and  she  prayed  for  patience  and  strength  to 
"overcome  evil  with  good."  She  remembered  with  pride  and 
pleasure  the  purity  and  strength  of  principle  that  had  forced 
him  to  alienate  a  sum  which,  however  finally  disposed  of, 
would  just  now  have  so  materially  assisted  him  in  his  busi- 
ness. With  Kate,  however,  she  had  much  ado  to  keep  her 
temper;  and  she  looked  forward,  with  secret  joy,  to  the  time 
when  "  Lena  Dunn's"  promotion  should  deliver  her  from  the 
trial.  Kate  often  indulged  in  a  recreation  which  she  herself 
denominated  "  speaking  her  mind,"  and  which  was  anything 
but  an  amusement  to  Mrs.  Leslie ;  so  that  Mary  could  not 
always  refrain  from  repaying  her  in  kind ;  for,  in  her  love  for 
Kate,  there  was  not,  of  course,  that  feminine  instinct  of  sub- 
mission that  characterized  her  love  for  her  husband.  With 
Mary,  love  was  religion ;  and  her  love  to  God  and  to  her 
husband  always  acted  upon  and  augmented  each  other.  Mary 
Leslie  could  not,  therefore,  be  unhappy ;  on  the  contrary,  her 
daily  sacrifice  of  obedience  would  have  been  a  source  of  the 
greatest  heart  happiness,  but  that  her  husband,  from  real  or 
seeming  insensibility,  never  noticed  the  offering,  by  commend- 
ing the  votary. 

But  the  greatest  trial  and  the  greatest  triumph  of  the  wife 
•were  now  at  hand. 

Twelve  months  succeeding  the  events  recorded  above,  Mrs. 
Leslie  sat  in  her  parlour.  It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
the  snow  was  falling  fast  without,  within  everything  wore  an 
air  of  the  greatest  possible  comfort.  A  coal  fire  was  glowing 
in  the  grate,  a  snow-white  cloth  was  laid  for  tea.  Mrs.  Leslie 
reclined  upon  a  lounging  chair,  near  the  fire  j  her  face  wai 
somewhat  paler  and  thinner  than  when  we  noticed  her  last. 


42  TIIE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

but  scarcely  less  attractive.  Her  large,  tender  eyes  wore  an 
expression  of  holy  and  meditative  love  that  was  very  beautiful 
Her  work  (an  embroidered  slip)  had  fallen  from  her  hands 
upon  the  carpet.  Sylvia  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet,  dress 
ing  a  doll,  Catherine  reclined  upon  a  distant  sofa,  absorbed 
in  a  novel  (her  constant  occupation,  when  not  visiting,  dress- 
ing or  disputing). 

"  Who  are  you  making  this  for,  mamma  ?"  inquired  Sylvia, 
taking  up  the  little  dress. 

"  For  whom.  You  should  try  to  speak  correctly,  darling," 
said  her  mother,  coaxingly. 

"Well,  then,  for  whom,  mamma,  are  you  working  this  little 
frock  ?"  persisted  Sylvia. 

"  First  find  out  what  rule  of  grammar  you  have  just  now 
transgressed,  and  then  perhaps  I  may  tell  you,  darling." 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  the  child  ?  For  my  part  I  don't  see 
the  use  of  mystifying  children,"  exclaimed  Kate,  throwing 
aside  her  book,  and  coming  to  the  fire. 

The  front  door  was  now  heard  to  open,  and  in  another 
instant  Mr.  Leslie  entered. 

Going  up  to  Mary,  with  more  tenderness  than  we  have  ever 
Tet  seen  him  display,  he  took  her  hand,  and  pressing  a  kiss 
pon  her  brow,  said — 

"  How  are  you,  this  evening,  sweet  wife  ?  Nay,  sit  still 
f  will  ring  for  tea,  or  Sylvia,  do  you  do  so.  Why,  Sylvia,  an 
affectionate  daughter  should  be  ever  on  the  watch  to  save  hex 
mother  trouble." 

Sylvia  sprang  to  obey.  Tea  was  soon  brought  in,  and  they 
gathered  around  the  table. 

"I  bring  you  good  tidings,  Catherine,  Lieutenant  Dunn 
Las  received  his  promotion." 

"  Then  I  congratulate  the  lieutenants.  There  is  one  fool 
the  less  among  their  number,"  said  Catherine,  piqued,  per- 
haps, that  "  Lciu  Dunn"  had  not  hastened  to  her  with  the 
news  himself. 


THE    WIFE'S    vicToar.  40 

"Capt.  Dunn  is  now  on  duty,  but  will  pay  his  respects  to 
you  to-morrow,"  said  Leslie,  divining  her  cause  of  dissatis- 
faction. 

After  the  tea  service  was  removed,  the  conversation  became 
rather  constrained.  Catherine  took  up  her  everlasting  novel, 
Mary  resumed  her  seat  and  her  needlework.  Sylvia,  bent  on 
following  up  the  hint  of  her  step-father,  began  to  arrange  ho? 
mother's  work-box,  while  Leslie  walked  up  and  down  the  floor, 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  who  has  done,  or  is  about  to  do, 
something  disagreeable.  At  last  he  took  a  seat,  drew  a  letter 
from  his  pocket,  examined  the  superscription,  turned  it  over, 
glanced  at  Catherine,  who  had  closed  the  book,  and  was  now 
looking  at  him  with  quiet  impudence,  and  finally  replaced  the 
letter  in  his  pocket.  He  evidently  had  something  to  say,  but 
was  withheld  by  the  presence  of  Catherine.  I  am  really  mor- 
tified to  be  obliged  to  record  such  a  weakness  on  the  part  of  the 
stately  Mr.  Leslie,  but  truth  must  come,  and  Mr.  Leslie  really 
stood  in  a  little  awe  of  Catherine.  He  had  no  sort  of  influence 
over  her.  She  would  do  and  say  just  exactly  what  she  pleased, 
however  disagreeable  it  might  be,  and  he  could  not  prevent 
her;  nor  could  he  decently  turn  her  out  of  the  house,  nor 
would  he  descend  to  quarrel  with  her.  Consequently,  Mr. 
Leslie  was  ever  on  his  guard  to  avoid  any  chance  of  controversy 
with  Miss  Gleason. 

Fortunately,  Mary,  with  her  usual  tact,  saw  the  impatience 
of  Leslie  to  unburden  his  mind,  and,  making  an  excuse  to 
Catherine,  retired  early  to  her  own  room.  Leslie  followed 
her  almost  immediately. 

Catherine's  beautiful  lips  were  disfigured  by  a  mockiug 
emile,  as  her  glance  followed  Leslie  from  the  room. 

"  Come,  Sylvia,  honey,  let  us  go  up  stairs  to  bed  The 
I>ashaw  is  meditating  some  new  atrocity.  I  know  it  b)  hi? 
looks.  He  is  afraid  to  let  me  know  it,  though." 

'•  Ma'am  ?"  said  Sylvia,  raising  her  large  eyes  to  the  fac« 
of  her  a\»ot. 


44  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  was  against  you  again, 
too.  Perhaps  he  wants  to  black  your  face,  and  crisp  your 
hair,  and  sell  you  for  a  negro." 

"  Who — no — of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Aunt  Catherine  ?" 

."  Of  His  Infallibility  the  Grand  Seignior,  your  step-father." 

"  Then,  please  do  not  speak  of  him  in  that  way,  Aunt 
Catherine,  and  call  him  bad  names." 

"  Why  not,  miss  ?" 

"  Because  mamma  would  not  like  it." 

"  Oh  !  your  mamma  is  as  great  a .  But  what  are  you 

staring  me  in  the  face  in  that  manner  for  ?  Don't  you  know 
it  is  very  rude  ?  Come  along  up  stairs,  child." 

And  they  left  the  room. 

"  Something  has  disturbed  you,  Leslie,"  said  Mary,  after 
waiting  for  a  few  moments  in  vain  for  Leslie  to  open  the  con- 
versation. "May  I  inquire,  without  indiscretion,  what  it 
is?" 

"  Certainly,  Mary.  I  have  not  now,  nor  have  I  ever  had, 
any  concealments  from  you.  I  have  never,  from  a  false  senti- 
ment of  tenderness,  withheld  from  you  any  cause  I  might 
have  for  anxiety.  I  have  several  vexing  cases  just  now.  In 
one  of  them,  you  have  an  especial,  perhaps  you  may  think, 
an  exclusive  interest." 

Leslie  then  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  added — 

"This  letter  is  from  Madame  D'Arblay,  of  New  Orleans, 
now  in  this  city,  at  the  Astor  House." 

"  From  whom  ?" 

'•  Madame  D'Arblay,  the  mother  of  the  late  Mr.  Lindal, 
and  the  grandmother  of  your  daughter,  Sylvia." 

"Oh!  yes;  I  recollect  now  having  heard  that  the  Another 
of  Mr.  Lindal  married  the  second  time  a  Frenchman  by  the 
came  of  D'Arblay,  and  removed  to  New  Orleans;  but  that 
was  many  years  ago." 

"Yes.     Ani  now  she  writes  that  she  has  been  left,  by  th« 


THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  45 

recent  death  of  Mr.  D' Arblay,  entirely  alone,  the  srle  mistress 
of  a  large  fortune,  without  a  relative  on  earth,  except  her 
grandchild,  our  daughter,  Sylvia." 

"  Well  ?"  questioned  Mary,  pale  with  a  presentiment  of 
what  was  coming. 

"  Madame  D' Arblay  makes  us  the  very  handsome  proposal  to 
make  Sylvia  her  heiress,  on  condition  that  we  allow  her  to 
return  with  her  grandmother  to  New  Orleans,  and  reside  per- 
manently beneath  her  roof." 

"  But  I  cannot  part  with  Sylvia,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"Do  not  decide  hastily,  Mary;  you  must  consider  in  thia 
matter  your  child's  interests,  not  your  own  feelings,"  said 
Leslie,  tenderly  but  gravely. 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot  part  with  her.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  can- 
not," cried  Mary,  trembling. 

"  But  this  is  childish,  Mary." 

"  It  would  break  Sylvia's  heart  to  leave  me." 

"  Not  at  all.  By  no  means.  Grief  is  very  short-lived  with 
children  of  her  age." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !"  exclaimed  Mary,  passionately,  "and  affection, 
too !  and  impressions,  too !  She  will  soon  forget  her  mother. 
She  will  only  be  consoled  for  her  separation  from,  by  ceasing 
to  love,  her  mother  !" 

"  You  have  not  a  mother's  disinterestedness,  Mary,  or  you 
would  be  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  of  your  own  feelings  to 
secure  for  your  child  the  immense  advantages  offered  by  her 
grandmother." 

"  You  did  not  seem  to  consider  wealth  such  an  immense 
advantage  twelve  months  ago,"  said  Mary,  bitterly. 

"  Mrs.  Leslie  forgets  herself,  and  forgets  what  is  due  to 
me,"  said  Leslie,  rising  and  walking  towards  the  door,  adding, 
as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  "  I  will  leave  you,  Mary, 
by  reflection  and  solitude,  to  recover  your  lost  recollection." 

Mary  sprang  to  his  side,  and,  seizing  his  hand,  exclaimed, 
id  she  burst  into  tears — 


46  THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY. 

"  Forgive  me!  forgive  me  !  It-is  the  first  time;  it  shall  be 
the  last.  But  my  heart  is  so  wrung,  so  tortured ;  you  do  not 
know-— you  could  not  understand,  unless  you  were  a  parent. 
But  tell  me,  then,  how  you  have  decided;  for  that  you  have 
decided  I  know,  and  that  your  decision  is  immovable  I  know  j 
therefore,  tell  me  at  once ;  it  will  save  us  a  world  of  useless 
argument,  controversy,  and  vexation.  How  have  you  de- 
cided ?" 

"  That  Sylvia  shall  return  with  her  grandmother,"  said 
Leslie,  gently  but  firmly. 

Mary  let  fall  the  hand  of  her  husband,  and,  growing  very 
faint,  sunk  back  on  her  chair. 

"  These  are  the  reasons  that  have  influenced  my  decision," 
said  Leslie,  resuming  his  seat  by  her  side  :  "  We  have  deprived 
Sylvia,  justly  and  righteously,  it  is  true,  but  we  have  deprived 
her,  of  the  reversion  of  a  sum  that  would  have  made  her  inde- 
pendent. At  the  period  of  that  transaction,  I  believed  that  I 
should  be  able  to  secure  for  Sylvia  every  advantage  which  that 
money  would  have  given,  and,  finally,  to  have  given  her  a 
portion  of  equal  amount.  I  will  now  admit,  that  the  tem- 
porary possession  of  that  sum  led  me  into  a  speculation  which 
failed  by  the  sudden  withdrawal  of  it.  I  have  never  recovered 
that  failure,  and  I  am  now  on  the  very  brink  of  insolvency. 
Nothing  but  the  strictest  economy  and  the  most  careful  finan- 
cial diplomacy  will  save  me.  I  have  therefore  great  doubts 
of  ever  being  able  to  carry  out  my  plans  for  Sylvia ;  conse- 
quently, it  becomes  my  duty,  my  painful  duty,  to  determine 
that  our  daughter  be  given  up  to  her  grandmother." 

"  I  did  intend  to  say  no  more,"  murmured  Mary,  in  a 
quivering  voice,  "yet " 

"Well?" 

"  Madame  D'Arblay,  is  she  a  proper  person,  at  her  advanced 
age,  to  bring  up  a  girl  ?" 

"  Read  her  letter,"  said  Leslie,  handing  it.  "  You  will 
find  no  infirmity  there  ;  and  for  the  rest,  you  have  doubtless 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY.  47 

hoard  enough  of  her  piety  and  intelligence  to  feel  secure  that 
the  moral  and  intellectual  welfare  of  youi  daughter  will  be 
safe,  while  her  vast  wealth  will  insure  her  all  the  more  worldly 
advantages  of  which  she  is  now  deprived." 

"  But  is  it  not  very  sickly  at  New  Orleans  ?" 

"  You  have  not  yet  read  Madame  D' Arblay's  letter  through, 
or  you  would  see  that  she  spends  her  summers  at  her  villa  on 
the  Gulf,  which,  she  says,  is  remarkably  healthy  in  its  loca- 
tion." 

"  When  shall  we  have  an  interview  with  Madame  D' Arblay  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  to-morrow,  about  twelve  o'clock,  you  had 
better  make  her  a  call." 

"  And  do  you  know — do  you  know  how  long  she  will  stay 
in  the  city  ?  I  mean,  how  long'shall  I  yet  have  dear  Sylvia 
with  me  ?"  And  the  mother  burst  into  tears. 

"I  do  not  know,  of  course,  as  I  have  not  yet  seen  Madame 
D' Arblay.  But  we  will  talk  no  more  at  present,  Mary ;  you 
must  compose  yourself.  I  will  leave  you  for  that  purpose  for 
a  few  moments.  On  my  return,  let  me  find  you  quiet." 
And  Leslie  descended  the  stairs. 

Mary  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and  prayed  long  and 
earnestly,  then  arose  calmly,  and  retired  to  rest. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Leslie,"  exclaimed  Kate  Gleason,  as  she 
entered  the  breakfast  parlour  the  next  morning,  "  What  have 
you  been  saying  to  Mary  ?  She  is  up  in  her  chamber  in  tears 
and  Sylvia  is  sobbing  by  her  side.  I  can't  get  anything  out 
of  her,  but  I  know  you  are  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Now,  what 
is  it  all  about  ?" 

"  I  have  no  explanations  to  make  you,  Miss  Gleason,"  re- 
plied Leslie,  taking  his  hat,  and  leaving  the  room  to  evade  a 
quarrel. 

"  I'll  make  Lem  Dunn  call  you  out  for  that,  sir !"  cried 
Kate,  as  he  went  out. 

Kate  looked  the  very  idea  of  a  beautiful  scold,  as  she  stood 
there,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  cheeks  glowing,  eyes  sparkling, 


48  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

lips  curling  and  quivering,  and  the  tangled  masses  of  jet-black 
ringlets  falling  in  tear-sprinkled  disorder  about  her  face  and 
neck. 

"  Captain  Dunn  !"  announced  a  servant,  throwing  open  the 
d.ior,  and  Captain  Dunn  entered. 

"Ah  !  I'm  glad  you've  come  !  I'm  very  glad  you've  come. 
You're  come  in  excellent  times.  Go  after  that  man  !  Go  after 
him  !  He's — he's" Kate  was  out  of  breath. 

"  What  man,  dear*  Kate  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  inquired 
Captain  Dunn,  in  surprise. 

"  That  Leslie !" 

"  Leslie !     Why,  what  has  he  done  ?" 

"  He  has  abused  his  wife,  and  insulted  mo ;  that  is,  he  has 
nade  her  weep,  and  treated  me  with  contempt." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Kate — tell  me  all  about  it ;  and  if 
be  has  been  wanting  in  proper  respect  to  my  little  betrothed — 
I'll — I'll  annihilate  him,"  said  Captain  Dunn,  laughing;  for  he 
had  known  Leslie  too  long  and  too  well  to  imagine  that  there 
could  be  any  real  cause  of  complaint.  Unfortunately,  Catherine 
could  tell  him  but  little  about  it,  and  that  little  was  not  very 
much  to  her  credit. 

"  He's  a  terrible  fellow,  Kate,"  laughed  Captain  Dunn,  as 
she  concluded  her  account,  "  a  very  terrible  fellow,  indeed. 
Upon  second  thought,  I  should  rather  not  fight  him.  He 
would  shoot  at  me — he  might  hit  me — in  which  case,  I  might 
be  mortally  wounded,  and  the  service  would  lose" 

"A  coward!  an  arrant  coward!  a  poltroon,  who  will  one 
day  bring  disgrace  upon  the  flag,  if  he  is  not  hung  before  that 
day  comes  !"  exclaimed  Kate,  as  she  flounced  out  of  the  room, 
in  a  great  passion,  passing  Leslie,  who  was  about  to  re-enter 

Captain  Dunn  was  laughing  heartily. 

"  You   laugh   now,  my  dear  Dunn,"  said  Leslie,  smiling, 
"  but  will  you  laugh  a  year  hence  ?" 
:  "  Yes  I  oh,  yes !  that  is,  I  hope  to  do  so." 


THE     WIFE' 8     VICTORY.  49 

"  Have  you  no  misgivings  concerning  your  future  peace  ?" 
asked  Leslie,  seriously. 

"  For  my  peace  f  I  don't  know;  for  my  happiness,  not  ono. 
Kate's  temper  amuses  me  beyond  measure." 

"  Yet,  I  heard  some  ugly  names  called,  as  I  came  in." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  Oh  !  I've  no  doubt  Kate  will  have  given  me 
twenty  beatings  before  this  time  next  year." 

"  You  will  weary  of  it." 

"  Well,  when  the  blows  grow  unpleasant,  I  have  only  to 
catch  the  little  shrew  in  my  arms,  and  hold  her  very  tight, 
until  she  becomes  quiet  and  good,"  said  Dunn,  laughing. 

"  Ah !  and  then — do  you  know  what  she  will  do  ?" 

"No.     What?" 

"  Try  to  frighten  you  to  death,  by  going  into  a  hysteric  fit, 
or  worse — falling  into  a  swoon." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Is  that  Mrs.  Leslie's  method  !" 

"  No  !  Bless  dear  Mary  !  Don't  jest  with  her  name,  Dunn." 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't,  just  as  much  as  I  please.  What ! 
Haven't  you  been  jesting  with  Kate's?  '  It's  a  bad  rule  that 
•won't  work  both  ways.'" 

Mrs.  Leslie  entered  at  this  moment,  equipped  for  a  drive, 
and  Leslie  excused  himself,  and  attended  his  wife  to  her  car- 
riage. 

Mrs.  Leslie  drove  to  the  Astor  House,  and  was  shown  into 
the  private  parlour  of  Madame  D'Arblay.  Madame  d'Arblay 
was  at  this  time  in  her  sixty-fifth  year.  Her  tall,  graceful, 
and  majestic  figure  and  stately  carriage  would  have  rather  re- 
pulsed the  gentle  Mary,  had  not  her  face  been  so  sweetly  pre- 
possessing. Her  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  holy  calm, 
of  heavenly  goodness,  very  beautiful  to  look  upon.  Mary  was 
at  once  reassured  by  her  countenance  and  demeanor.  They 
conversed  a  long  time,  the  subject  being  a  recapitulation  of 
and  enlargement  upon  the  plan  proposed  in  her  letter.  She 
made  many  inquiries,  however,  about  Sylvia,  and  expressed  a 
great  desire  to  see  her.  At  Mary's  earnest  entreaty,  Madame 


50  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

d'Arblay  consented  to  leave  her  apartments  at  Astoi's,  and 
take  up  her  abode  for  the  period  of  her  visit  at  Mrs.  Leslie's. 

The  next  hour,  Madame  D'Arblay  was  comfortably  ensconced 
in  Mary's  large  easy  chair,  by  the  parlour  fireside.  Sylvi.-i 
who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  was  nestling  at 
her  feet.  Mrs.  Leslie  sat  with  her  back  to  the  light,  to  shad  j 
as  much  as  possible  her  tear-stained  face.  Kate  was  sulking 
in  her  own  room,  and  "  would  not  be  entreated"  to  come  down 
and  be  sociable.  There  was  so  much  in  the  pious  and  intelli- 
gent conversation  of  Madame  D'Arblay  to  set  the  fears  of 
Mary  at  rest  on  the  subject  of  the  welfare  of  her  child,  that 
when  the  dinner  hour  arrived,  and  Leslie,  Captain  Dunn, 
"Uncle  Gleason,"  and  Kate,  had  joined  them,  Mary  had 
actually  become  cheerful. 

The  month  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  visit  drew  to  a  close. 
Mary,  after  a  severe  struggle  with  herself,  and  much  prayer,  had 
grown  composed,  and  tranquilly  prepared  Sylvia  for  her  journey. 
Leslie  was  unusually  attentive  and  tender  towards  her;  Ma- 
dame D'Arblay  mentally  condemned  the  seeming  indifference 
of  Mrs.  Leslie  to  the  departure  of  her  child,  but  she  quietly 
ascribed  it  to  the  influence  of  her  second  marriage.  Kate, 
with  whom  Sylvia  was  a  great  pet,  had  out-scolded  her  proto- 
type and  namesake,  and  was  now  not  upon  speaking  terms 
with  any  of  the  family,  and  had  banished  "  Lem  Dunn"  into 
perpetual  exile — until  recalled.  Sylvia,  child-like,  was  delight- 
ed with  her  new  dresses,  new  books,  and  new  toys,  and  the 
prospect  of  a  long  journey  and  new  scenes,  and  had  no  room 
in  her  heart  for  painful  sensations. 

*         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         * 

The  last  evening  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  stay  arrived. 

"Oh  !  Aunt  Catherine  !  Aunt  Catherine  !"  exclaimed  Sylvia, 
bursting  into  Kate's  sanctum,  "  to-morrow  we're  going.  I'm 
so  glad.  Mamma  has  just  laid  out  my  new  blue  pelisse  and 
velvet  hood,  and  my  nice  chinchilla  muff,  all  ready  for  to-mor- 
row at  six  " 


THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  51 

"Yes,  miss!"  said  Kate,  severely,  "you  seem  very  much 
delighted  to  leave  your  poor,  pale,  sick  mother,  who  is  grieving 
herself  to  death  at  the  idea  of  parting  with  you,  who  do  not 
cure  for  her." 

A  thunderbolt  fell  upon  the  child's  gladness,  and  destroyed 
it  all  at  once.  She  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh  !  Aunt  Catherine,  is  mamma  sorry  ?  Doesn't  she 
want  me  to  go  ?  I  thought  she  wanted  me  to  go.  I  forgot  I 
had  to  leave  mamma ;  I  only  thought  of  the  fun.  I  will  run 
now  and  tell  mamma  that  I  won't  go;  no,  that  I  won't."  And 
Sylvia  made  for  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Leslie  will  compel  you,  miss,"  said  Catherine.  The 
name  that  was  a  spell  to  all  the  household  arrested  the  flying 
steps  of  Sylvia  for  an  instant,  then  saying — 

"  I  will  speak  with  mamma,"  she  ran  out. 

********* 

Mary  Leslie,  who  had  nerved  her  gentle  heart  to  go  through 
the  impending  trial,  was  in  her  own  room,  still  engaged  in 
laying  out  such  articles  of  dress  as  would  be  needed  by  Sylvia 
for  the  next  morning.  Mrs.  Leslie's  tranquillity  was  entirely 
overthrown  by  the  impetuosity  of  Sylvia,  who  now  burst  into 
her  presence,  exclaiming,  as  she  threw  herself  into  her  mother's 
arms,  "Mamma!  mamma!  I  can't  leave  you;  I  don't  want 
to  go  any  longer,  now  I  know  you  do  not  wish  it.  I  love  you, 
mamma,  better  than  fine  clothes,  and  grandmothers,  and  jour- 
neys ;  and  so,  mamma,  I  cannot  go,  and  I  will  not  go." 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  quite  unprepared  for  this  outburst ;  Sylvia 
had  been  so  tractable  and  so  cheerful  up  to  this  time.  She 
repressed  her  tears  with  difficulty,  and  replied,  with  an  effort — • 

"  Cannot  and  will  not,  Sylvia !  why,  what  manner  of  words 
are  those,  and  where  learnt  you  them  ?  You  will,  of  course, 
do  as  your  parents  wish  you." 

"  Aunt  Catherine  says  that  if  they  send  me  away  from  you, 
mamma,  it  will  break  your  heart,  for  that  you  don't  want  me 
to  go  " 


02  THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY. 

"  Catherine  is  mistaken  ;  listen  to  me,  my  darling  Sylvia 
I  do  want  you  to  go ;  and  though  I  may  be  very  sorry  to  part 
with  my  dear  little  girl,  yet  I  shall  soon  get  over  the  grief, 
because  I  know  it  will  be  for  her  benefit.  And  now,"  added 
the  mother,  with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness,  "  let  us  talk  about 
the  fine  ride  in  the  cars  you  will  have,  and  look  at  the  pretty 
things  I  have  put  in  your  nice  little  travelling  basket." 

"  No,  no,  mamma !  No,  no,  mamma !  I  don't  care  for  the 
ride  in  the  cars,  and  don't  want  the  travelling  basket.  I  love 
you  !  I  want  to  stay  with  you,"  exclaimed  Sylvi?,,  bursting 
into  tears.  "  Oh,  mamma,  don't  let  me  go !  don't,  please 
don't.  I  did  not  think  about  parting  from  you  before,  and  I 
know  I  can't !  indeed  I  can't !" 

There  was  grief,  there  was  agony,  on  the  mother's  counte- 
nance, as  she  crushed  back  the  rising  emotions  of  her  heart, 
and  choked  back  hor  tears.  She  struggled  to  speak,  but 
could  not  do  so  with  the  calmness  requisite  to  soothe  her  child. 
She  could  only  press  her  closer  to  her  bosom  in  silence. 
Neither  spoke  for  some  moments ;  at  length — 

"  Mamma,  do  you  know  the  night  you  were  married,  when 
I  slept  alone  in  my  little  bed  ?  Well,  mamma,  I  cried  all 
night;  I  could  not  sleep,  because  I  was  away  from  you.  ] 
knew  that  I  should  see  you  soon  in  the  morning,  but  still  1 
wept;  yes,  and  I  wept  many  nights,  too,  although  you  did  not 
know  it,  and  although  you  were  not  further  off  than  the  next 
room,  and  I  could  see  you  every  day.  Now,  so  many  days 
must  come  and  go,  and  so  many  nights  pass,  and — and — no 
mother  to — to — "  and  Sylvia,  breaking  from  her  mother's 
hold,  threw  herself,  in  a  fit  of  hysterical  sobbing,  upon  the 
carpet. 

"  Oh  !  God,  have  mercy  on  me,  and  give  me  strength,"  ex- 
claimed the  mother,  in  strong  emotion,  as  she  went  toward 
Sylvia,  stood  for  an  instant  to  gain  self-contrcl,  then  took  her 
child  in  her  arms,  and,  reseating  herself,  pressed  her  to  her 
bosom,  smoothed  back  the  shining  ringlets  of  her  hair,  aud 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY.  53 

imprinted  kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  fair  brow,  as  she  talked 
gently  and  soothingly  to  her,  and,  rocking  her  to  and  fro, 
finally  succeeded  in  subduing  her  emotion.  Exhaustion,  after 
so  much  excitement,  soon  put  Sylvia  to  sleep;  yet  still  the 
mother  rocked  and  sung,  even  as  she  had  done  when  the  littlo 
girl  in  her  arms  was  a  babe — thinking,  perhaps,  that  it  might 
be  the  last  time  she  should  ever  hold  her  thus.  At  last  she 
arose,  and,  laying  Sylvia  on  the  bed,  sunk  upon  her  knees, 
and  poured  out  her  whole  soul  in  prayer  to  her  Creator — first, 
that  this  trial  might  yet  be  spared  her,  "  if  possible ;"  then, 
that  if  it  were  not,  she  might  have  strength  and  resignation  to 
bear  it  cheerfully.  How  earnestly,  passionately,  fervently, 
she  prayed !  And  when  emotion  became  so  great  that  words 
failed,  the  upturned,  straining  eye,  the  clasped  hands,  and 
heaving  sighs,  bore  up  the  silent  prayer;  and  at  last,  when 
the  weary  head  sunk  upon  the  folded  hands,  and  thought  no 
longer  took  the  form  of  words,  the  heart,  the  untiring  heart, 
still  bore  up  the  prayer,  in  one  intense,  absorbing  yearning 
after  mercy.  Unknown  to  Mary,  there  was  one  spectator  to 
this  scene.  Leslie  was  standing  within  the  door.  He  had 
entered,  silently  and  unobserved,  at  the  moment  that  Mary 
had  lain  the  sleeping  Sylvia  on  the  bed,  and  sunk  down  bv 
her  side  in  prayer.  The  first  words  of  the  prayer  arrested  his 
intention  of  coming  forward  or  speaking.  He  had  seen,  and 
had  heard — and  never  before  had  the  pure  and  holy  heart  of 
his  wife  been  so  unveiled  as  in  that  prayer ;  and  while  it  yet 
ascended,  in  all  its  Christian  beauty  and  eloquence,  he  quietly 
withdrew  from  the  room,  murmuring,  "  The  angel,  the  angel, 
how  blind  I  have  been  !  I  must  save  her  this  trial;  there  is 
but  one  way,  for  I  must  save  her  without  sacrificing  Sylvia." 
lie  passed  to  the  door  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  room,  and 
knocked.  The  pleasant  voice  of  the  old  lady  bade  him  enter; 
he  did  so,  and  merely  saying — "  Will  you  come  with  me  to 
Mary's  chamber,  Madame  ?  She  seems  much  distressed  at 
the  thought  of  parting  with  her  daughter  to-morrow."  II< 


54  THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 

accompanied  her  thither,  and  withdrew.  Mary's  voice  wa« 
still  heard,  but  in  low,  interrupted,  and  quivering  tones.  Her 
tears  were  falling  like  rain,  and  her  hands  wringing  and 
twisting  over  each  other;  but  the  words  of  Mary's  prayer, 
breathed,  as  she  deemed,  to  the  ear  of  God  alone,  unfolded 
the  most  secret  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Mary's  profoundly 
pious  heart. 

"  Oh,  God !"  exclaimed  Madame  D' Arblay,  ,"  I  did  not 
dream  of  this.  Mary,  Mary,  my  dear  child,  arise.  Your 
prayer  is  heard  and  answered." 

Mary  started  in  surprise  to  her  feet,  and  was  caught  to  the 
bosom  of  the  old  lady.  "  Mary,  my  dear  daughter,"  said  she, 
"  your  child  shall  not  be  taken  from  you,  neither  shall  she 
lose  anything  by  remaining  with  you.  Oh  !  Mary,  how  little 
did  I  know  you !  How  unjustly  have  I  judged  you,  when  I 
condemned  the  indifference  with  which  you  seemed  to  regard 
a  separation  from  your  child.  But,  Mary,  how  could  you 
suppose  that  I  would  have  taken  my  granddaughter  away, 
had  I  not  thought  that  you  were  willing,  nay,  anxious,  for 
her  removal  to  my  abode  ?  Forgive  me,  Mary,  but  I  fancied 
that  your  second  marriage  had  unnaturally  alienated  your 
heart  from  your  child ;  I  was  therefore  the  more  anxious  to 
receive  her.  But,  Mary,  why  did  you  not  make  me  acquainted 
with  your  feelings  on  the  subject?" 

Mary,  who  during  this  long  speech  had  had  time  to  collect 
herself,  replied, — "  Mr.  Leslie,  Madame,  had  determined  that 
Sylvia  should  go  with  you.  He  thought  that  her  residence 
beneath  your  roof  would  be  a  solace  to  you,  and  an  advantage 
to  herself.  I  could  not  seek  to  thwart  his  purpose,  by  making 
an  appeal  to  your  sympathies,  you  know,  Madame." 

"  You  were  right,  my  daughter,  perfectly  right.  You  have 
won  my  deepest  love,  my  highest  esteem,  Mary  Leslie  !  You 
have  won  it  by  your  self-control.  You  have  established  your- 
self firmly  and  permanently  in  your  husband's  respect  and 
affection;  more  than  that,  you  have  proved  and  known  the 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY.  55 

power  of  faith  and  prayer.  Never  forget  it,  my  child  !  Now, 
Mary,  I  must  tell  you  my  improvised  plan.  Though  I  will 
not  take  Sylvia  away,  neither  will  I  leave  her.  I  am  glad  thia 
has  h  ippened.  I  like  you  so  much,  Mary,  I  want  to  live  with 
you.  I  have  been  so  solitary  j  and,  after  all.  a  little  girl  is 
not  company  enough  for  an  old  woman.  So,  Ma*y,  if  you 
will  give  me  an  easy  chair  by  your  fireside,  and  a  plar-e  at  your 
table,  I  will  even  spend  the  close  of  my  life  with  you.  I  will 
do  everything  for  Sylvia  here,  that  I  would  have  done  at  home; 
and  when  I  die,  I  will  leave  her  all  I  possess;  and  if  she  mar- 
ries before  that  event,  I  will  dower  her  handsomely.  What 
say  you,  Mary  ?" 

"  Oh,  Madame  !"  exclaimed  Mary,  seizing  her  aged  hands, 
and  pressing  them  to  her  bosom  and  her  lips,  "  if  I  have 
been  silent,  it  has  been  from  deep  emotion.  Words  will  not 
convey  my  thanks.  It  will  take  a  lifetime  to  live  my  grati- 
tude." At  this  moment  the  supper-bell  rang,  and  its  alarum 
awoke  Sylvia  from  her  deep  sleep,  who,  when  informed  of  the 
change  in  her  grandmother's  project,  was  delighted  beyond 
measure;  and,  after  bestowing  many  caresses  on  her  grand- 
mother and  her  mamma,  ran  to  tell  "Aunt  Catherine"  the 
good  news.  What  effect  the  "  good  news"  had  upon  Kate 
may  be  gathered  from  the  following  circumstance:  Kate  took 
pen  and  paper  from  her  desk,  and  wrote  a  note.  Meeting  the 
errand-boy  on  the  stairs  as  she  descended  to  supper,  she  gave 
him  the  note,  telling  him  to  carry  it  to  Captain  Dunn,  on  board 
the  store  ship  Endymiou,  promising  to  give  him  a  half-dollar 
if  he  returned  with  an  answer  very  quickly.  Kate's  note  ran 
thus— 

"CAPTAIN  DUNN :  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  pall  at  Har 
>crs';  and  get  <  Forest  Days'  for  me.  Jt  JB  just  out.  Bring 
't  to  me  this  evening.  Yours,  &c. 

C.  GLEASON. 

"  Friday  Eveniny" — 

for  Kate,  with  all  her  impetuosity,  exercised  a  precaution  which 


56  THE    WIFE'S    VICTOR T. 

1  would  recommend  to  all  young  ladies,  and  would  not  commit 
herself,  by  writing  love-letters  or  billets-doux;  for  she  said,  "  1 
might  change  my  mind,  or  he  might  change  his;  and  then — 
there  !"  Captain  Dunn  answered  the  note  in  person,  and  took 
his  seat  with  the  happy  family  at  the  supper  table.  Kato's 
good-humour  was  entirely  restored.  She  welcomed  back  her 
exile  with  affectionate  frankness.  Sylvia's  bright  eyes  were 
glancing  and  flashing  from  one  face  to  another,  each  counte- 
nance seeming  to  reflect  its  own  gladness.  Madame  D'Arblay 
regarded  the  scene  with  a  look  of  quiet  self-complacency,  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  I  have  made  them  all  happy  !"  Mary's  coun- 
tenance expressed  quiet  and  grateful  happiness.  Leslie's  eyd 
were  occasionally  fixed  upon  the  face  of  his  wife,  with  looks  of 
ineffable  and  holy  tenderness.  Leslie  never  subjected  her  lov« 
to  another  trial.  He  was  deeply  moved  by  the  gentle  resigna- 
tion, the  tender  submission,  with  which  she  had  yielded  up 
the  dearest  object  of  her  affections  and  her  most  cherished 
wishes,  to  be  dealt  with  according  to  his  good  pleasure.  That 
submission  had  given  her  a  place  in  and  an  influence  over  his 
heart,  that  no  beauty,  grace,  or  accomplishments — no,  nor  in- 
tellectual nor  moral  excellence  without  it — could  have  secured. 

A  month  from  this  time,  a  gay  party  was  assembled  at  Mr 
Leslie's  to  honour  the  nuptials  of  Captain  Lemuel  Dunn, 
U.  S.  N.,  and  Miss  Catherine  Gleason. 

The  married  life  of  Kate  Gleason,  who  entered  upon  hoi 
duties  with  views  and  feelings  so  opposite  to  those  of  Mary, 
which  we  have  endeavoured  to  illustrate,  will  form  the  subject 
of  another  chapter. 


THE    MARRIED   SHREW: 


A    SEQUEL    TO 


THE    WIFE'S    VICTORY. 


OH  I  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd ; 

She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school; 

And  though  she  is  but  little,  she  is  fierce. — SHAKSPEABE. 

KATE  DUNN  entered  the  gay  world  of  fashion  first  as  a 
married  woman,  and  decided  was  her  success.  Kate's  life 
with  her  grandfather,  and  afterwards  with  the  Leslies,  had 
been  very  domestic,  and,  as  she  expressed  it,  very  triste;  she 
had  gone  "but  little  into  society.  Now  she  was  resolved  to 
have  compensation,  since  no  greater  obstacle  than  "  Lem  Dunn" 
intervened. 

Formerly  she  was  prevented  from  going  to  balls  and  parties 
by  want  of  proper  chaperonage ;  now  her  state  as  a  married 
woman  rendered  her  independent  of  that.  Kate  was  now 
resolved  to  combine  all  the  pleasures  of  the  maiden  with  the 
privileges  of  the  matron ;  consequently,  in  fashionable  society, 
where  her  resplendent  beauty  and  sparkling  wit  drew  many 
admirers,  she  was  always  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  young 
men,  who  were  very  well  pleased  to  carry  on  a  flirtation  with 
a  pretty  woman,  without  the  fear  of  a  suit  for  breach  of  pro- 
mise before  their  eyes.  There  was  one  man,  however,  who 
was  constantly  banished  from  her  circle,  and  that  man  was  he* 
husband. 

(57) 


68  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

"  There  arc  hundreds  of  intelligent  men  and  pretty  women 
here  to-night;  go  and  amuse  yourself;  I  shall  not  be  jealous  ;" 
was  the  kind  address  of  Kate  to  her  husband,  as  he  lingered 
by  t-er  side. 

Captain  Dunn  walked  off,  and  took  an  extra  glass  of  tcin-z. 

"  Can  you  not  comprehend  that,  as  we  are  married  now, 
your  attendance  can  be  dispensed  with ;  nay,  more — that  it  is 
outrt,  absurd,  to  remember  that  you  have  a  wife  in  the  room  ?" 
was  the  petulant  speech  with  which  she  received  him  when  he 
returned  after  an  hour's  absence. 

*•'  Decidedly,  Captain  Dunn,  you  are  making  yourself  and 
me  appear  very  ridiculous  by  this  Darby  and  Joan  exhibition 
of  conjugal  affection.  Positively  we  shall  be  cited  as  a  '  pat- 
tern couple ;'  and  I  know  nothing  that  could  be  more  scandal- 
ous or  alarming/'  said  Mrs.  Dunn  to  the  Captain,  as  they 
entered  the  carriage  to  return  from  a  large  party  one  evening. 

"  I  don't  understand  your  opinions  and  feelings  upon  this 
subject,  Catherine,  but  /don't  like  this  fashionable  manner  of 
waiting  upon  any  other  woman  .but  my  own  wife,  and  seeing 
her  attended  by  any  other  man  except  her  own  husband." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  Captain  Dunn,  you  make  me  quite  sick,  talk- 
ing so  foolishly  about  '  own  wives'  and  '  own  husbands ;'  the 
fact  of  our  marriage  is  incontrovertible;  there  is  no  need  to 
emphasize  it  so  often." 

"  Kate's  head  is  a  little  turned  by  her  French  romances, 
but  I  feel  sure  her  principles  are  really  sound.  I  will  not 
make  myself  'ridiculous,'  as  she  would  call  it,  by  freiting 
«nd  fuming,  nor  will  I  annoy  her  by  useless  remonstrance 
no'jo.  Give  her  folly  its  full  way;  it  will  soon  wear  itself  out, 

or" Captain  Dunn  paused  iu  his  mental  soliloquy,  poured 

out  and  swallowed  a  glass  of  wine. 

A  few  weeks  from  this  time,  Captain  Dunn  was  ordered  to 
Bca,  and  made  preparations,  with  a  reluctant  heart,  to  leave 
his  bride  A  few  days  previous  to  joining  his  ship,  he  seated 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.          59 

Himself  by  the  side  of  Catherine,  and,  passing  his  hands  carcss- 
:ngly  through  her  ringlets,  said  : 

"  You  will  be  very  lonesome  in  this  large  house  when  I  am 
gone,  dear  wife." 

"Oh!  no,  I  shan't;  I  shall  fill  it  with  company;  don't 
tumble  my  curls,  please,  Captain."  Captain  Dunn  folded  hia 
hands,  and  a  sigh  escaped  him. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Kate,  of  inviting  my  mother  to 
take  up  her  residence  here  during  my  absence." 

"  To  watch  your  wife,  I  presume,  sir,  and  to  look  after  your 
interests,  of  which  you  think  me  incapable." 

"Kate!  how  can  you ;  I  had  no  thought  beyond  giv- 
ing yuu  pleasure,  by  providing  you  with  a  desirable  com- 
panion." 

"  Then,  Captain,  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  your  mother  to 
leave  her  own  home,  to  come  to  me;  it  might  greatly  incon- 
venience her." 

"  Not  at  all.  Since  my  sister's  marriage  and  departure  for 
Europe,  my  mother  is  quite  alone,  and  very  sad ;  she  would 
be  more  cheerful  here  with  you." 

u  I  do  not  think  so — old  people  are  seldom  contented  out 
of  their  own  homes." 

"Yes,  but  with  my  mother  it  is  different;  she  has  an 
excellent  heart  and  most  serene  temper,  and  is  prepared  to 
love  you  as  a  daughter.  Besides,  her  support  has  hitherto 
been  my  most  agreeable  duty;  but  I  cannot  now  sustain  the 
expense  of  two  establishments;  so  you  see  the  propriety,  nay, 
the  necessity,  that  obliges  me  to  offer  her  a  home  here." 

"I  thought  it  was  all  on  my  account,"  sneered  Kate; 
"however,  you  may  be  sure  she  would  be  much  better  off  in 
a  good  boarding-house." 

"  Madam !"  exclaimed  Captain  Dunn,  in  angry  astonish- 
ment ;  but,  quickly  controlling  himself,  and  looking  seriously 
in  his  wife's  face,  he  inquired,  "  Am  I  to  understand,  Cathe- 


SO  THE     MARRIED     SHREWj     A 

rine,  thai  you  are  opposed  to  my  mother's  presence  iu  this 
house  ?" 

Notwithstanding  all  her  assurance,  Kate's  eyes  fell,  and  her 
cheeks  glowed  under  the  gaze  that  was  fixed  upon  her.  She 
was  determined  to  have  her  own  way,  however,  though  it 
would  require  some  hardihood  to  tell  the  frank  and  noble- 
hearted  man  before  her  that  she  was  opposed  to  having  his 
mother  under  their  roof.  She  replied  with  assumed  firmness, 
but  without  raising  her  eyes — 

"  I  have  a  great  respect  for  your  mother,  Captain,  and  will 
show  her  every  attention  in  my  power ;  but  I  do  dislike  the 
idea  of  a  mother-in-law  in  the  same  house  with  me ;  I  cannot 
conquer  my  repugnance  to  your  proposed  measure  j  and  you 
know,  Captain,  with  such  feelings  on  my  part,  your  mother 
and  myself  could  not  get  along  comfortably  together." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  insult  her  with  t,h"  proposition,"  said 
Captain  Dunn  haughtily,  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  I  have  conquered  again,"  thought  Kate.  "  Now,  I  really 
did  feel  like  giving  up  once,  but  it  won't  do — such  feelings 
must  not  be  encouraged — they  would  soon  enslave  me.  Men 
are  naturally  inclined  to  be  tyrannical,  particularly  over  their 
wives.  Oh !  yes,  decidedly,  I  was  right  in  the  affair  of  the 
mother-in-law.  Good  heavens !  I  could  not  brook  a  prying, 
fault-finding  mother-in-law  in  the  house."  Could  Kate  have 
followed  with  her  eye  her  husband's  steps  that  evening,  through 
the  various  scenes  of  dissipation  to  which  he  resorted  to  drown 
thought,  she  might  have  exclaimed,  with  the  conqueror  of  old, 
"  Another  such  victory  would  ruin  me." 

********** 

Captain  Dunn  was  absent  three  years,  during  which  time 
Kate  led  a  very  gay  life,  despite  the  affectionate  and  repeated 
roD;:mstrances  of  Mrs.  Leslie  and  Madame  D'Arblay.  She 
thought  several  times  of  writing  to  or  visiting  Mrs.  Dunn, 
senior;  but,  unhappily,  she  did  not  know  her  address,  being 
ignorant  what  arrangement  Captain  Dunn  had  finally  mad« 


SEQUEL     TO     THE    WIPE'S     VICTORY.          61 

for  her.  The  subject  had  never  been  mentioned  between  them 
since  the  evening  it  was  first  broached.  Kate's  summers  were 
usually  spent  at  some  fashionable  watering-place,  and  her 
winters  in  a  round  of  visiting  and  amusement. 

The  evening  of  Captain  Dunn's  expected  return  home,  it 
chanced  that  a  brilliant  ball  was  given  by  Madame  la  Baronne 

V ,  the  lady  of  the  French  ambassador.  "  The  beautiful 

Mrs.  Dunn"  was  among  the  most  admired  of  the  guests. 

It  was  after  having  gone  through  a  waltz  with  a  distinguished 
foreigner,  that  Kate  sat  down,  when  a  note  was  placed  in  her 
hand,  that  read  as  follows : 

" DEAR  CATHERINE  :  Come  home;  I  am  waiting  for  you; 
I  should  hasten  to  you,  but  I  may  not  intrude. 

"L.  D." 

"  Tell  Captain  Dunn  I  will  be  home  in  an  hour  or  two," 
said  Catherine  to  the  footman  who  brought  the  note. 

"  Very  well,  Thomas,"  said  Captain  Dunn,  on  receiving  this 
cool  reply ;  "  bring  me  the  morning  papers,  and  a  bottle  of 
port." 

Notwithstanding  the  provoking  coolnees  of  her  message, 
when  Catherine  returned,  a  few  hours  after,  the  door  was 
opened  by  Captain  Dunn,  who  received  her  in  his  arms,  and 
strained  her  to  his  bosom. 

"  Good  Heavens !  Captain,"  exclaimed  Kate,  releasing  her- 
self, "  you  take  my  breath  away — and  just  see  how  you  have 
crushed  my  dress  and  dishevelled  my  hair.  Pray,  don't  be 
BO  energetic." 

"  You  are  looking  in  high  health  and  beauty,  my  peerless 
Catherine,"  said  Captain  Dunn,  as  he  gazed  upon  her  with 
pridej  not  noticing  her  petulance. 

"  Do  reserve  your  gallant  speeches  for  other  women,  Captain, 
and  don't  waste  them  upon  your  wife." 

However  deeply  pained  Captain  Dunn  might  have  been  by 
bis  wife's  coolness  and  levity,  nothing  of  mortification  or  di»- 


62  THE     MARRIED     SHREWJ     A 

jpproval  was  apparent  in  his  manner.  Captain  Dunn  liked 
&  leave  all  his  bad  weather  at  sea. 

Some  twelve  months  succeeding  this  event,  Mrs.  Dunn  pre- 
sented her  husband  with  a  son  and  heir.  "  And  now,"  thought 
the  happy  father,  "  my  wife  will  love  her  home  for  her  child's 
gake."  But  Captain  Lemuel  Dunn  "reckoned  without  his 
host" ess,  as  a  very  few  days  demonstrated. 

"Where  is  the  young  sailor?"  inquired  he,  as  he  took  his 
seat  by  his  wife's  easy  chair,  a  few  days  succeeding  the  birth 
of  his  son. 

"  Mrs.  Tenly  has  got  him." 

"  Mrs.  Tenly— who  is  she  ?" 

"  A  young  woman  whom  1  have  engaged  as  a  wet  mu.e." 

"  Now,  is  it  possible,  Kate,  that  you  mean  to  let  your  child 
be  nursed  at  the  bosom  of  another  woman  ?" 

"  Yes  j  it  is  both  possible  and  positive — now,  don't  put  on 
that  disagreeable  look — it  is  not  usual  for  ladies  of  my  sta- 
tion"  

"  Your  station — a  rough  sailor's  wife" 

"  Well,  don't  tease  me  !  my  delicate  health  forbids" 

"  Your  delicate  health  !  Why,  Kate,  you  have  the  finest 
constitution  of  any  woman  I  know.  You  enjoy  high — I  hat 
almost  said  rude — health." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  must  have  it,  I  don't  intend  to  spoil 
my  figure  by  nursing  a  child.  And  I  have  no  idea  of  going 
about  the  house  in  a  slovenly  wrapper,  or  ill-fitting  corsage, 
for  the  sentimental  nonsense  of  nursing  my  own  baby." 

"Ha  !  ha  !  ha!  that's  the  most  amusing  reason  of  all — for 
you  to  give,  Kate,  who  go  about  the  house  all  the  morning  'n 
a  loose  gown,  with  your  hair  in  papers  I" 

"  Captain  Dunn,  you're  a  bore." 

"  Well !  this  nurse — has  she  lost  her  own  child  ?" 

"No;  she  is  raising  it  by  hand." 

"  Then  you  are  really  crutl,  as  well  as  silly." 

"  Captain  Dunn,  please  leave  the  room ;  this  interview  ha« 
fatigued  me,"  said  Kate,  affecting  languor. 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.          0.1 

If  the  reader  will  forgive  the  digression,  I  will  describe  a 
Binall,  mean  dwelling,  not  far  from  Captain  Dunn's  handsome 
house.  In  the  basement  story  of  a  dilapidated  old  house — in 
a  miserable  room,  with  broken-down  doors,  and  cracked  and 
fly-stained  window-glasses — on  a  poor  straw  bed,  covered  with 
a  thin,  faded  counterpane,  lay  a  shivering  babe.  A  Coloured 
girl,  in  tattered  garments,  was  trying  to  coax  a  few  embers  to 
burn  in  the  mildewed  fireplace.  At  a  cry  from  the  awakened 
child,  the  girl  gave  over  her  hopeless  efforts,  and,  taking  the 
infant  up,  she  sat  down  upon  a  low  stool,  and  commenced 
rocking  it  backward  and  forward  in  her  lap,  to  still  its  cries. 

At  tnis  moment  tne  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Tenly,  the  fine 
ladies'  nurse,  entered,  Irew  near  her  infant,  and,  while  the 
tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks,  looked  upon  it  in  silence.  The 
little  creature  was  now  lying  languidly  across  the  girl's  lap  j 
its  small  limbs  hung  flaccidly,  its  tiny  features  were  sharpened 
and  attenuated,  and  its  slumbers  were  interrupted  by  distress- 
ing moans. 

"  How  has  she  been,  Nelly  ?"  she  asked  of  the  negro  girl, 
"  Her  has  been  cryin'  a  dreat  deal,  ma'am." 
"  Poor  baby  !  poor  little  one  !     Oh,  it  is  wicked,  it  is  cruel, 
to  give  your  nourishment  to  another  child — your  own  nour- 
ishment, that  nature  has  provided  for  your  own  poor  little 
feeble  self — to  give  it  to  another  babe,  and  let  you  perish." 
The  mother  wept  convulsively,  as  she  took  the  babe  from  the 
little  negro. 

"  Clare  t'  de  Lord,  I  wouldn't  do  it,  mam ;"  exclaimed  the 
little  girl,  as  she  busied  herself  making  the  fire,  and  heating 
Borne  water. 

"  Ah,  Nelly,  I've  tried  every  other  way  at  getting  bread  !" 

Mrs.  Tenly,  after  washing  her  little  one,  and  dressed  her  in 

her  night  clothes,  indulged   herself  by  rocking   her  a  few 

moments  in  her  lap.     "  This  will  not  do  for  me,  though,"  said 

»he;  "that  other  chi'd  will  wake  and  cry,  and  Mrs.  Dunn  wUl 


64  THE     MARRIED     SHREWJ     A 

be  displeased."  Pressing  her  child  to  her  bosom  once  again, 
she  laid  her  upon  the  bed,  and  prepared  to  go. 

"  Oh  !  Nelly,  take  yood  care  of  the  baby,  and  I  will  bring 
you  something  pretty — will  you,  Nelly  ?" 

"  I  alluz  does  take  care  of  her,  ma'am." 

"  And  keep  the  panado  warm  in  the  corner,  and  give  it  to 
her  when  she  wakes  and  cries  in  the  night." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Tenly  turned  back  to  kiss  the  child  again,  and  tucked 
her  warmly  up ;  then  stopped  the  broken  pane  of  the  window, 
and  left  the  house,  her  eyes  streaming  with  tears. 

This  is  no  exaggerated  picture.  There  are  many  such  cases 
"  I  speak  that  I  do  know."  Mrs.  Tenly  had  come  over  to  this 
country  in  an  emigrant  ship,  in  company  with  her  husband 
and  some  hundred  others.  They  had  suffered  much  from  sick- 
ness and  privation,  and  many  of  them  were  provided  for  as 
paupers.  But  Mrs.  Tenly  and  her  husband  had  found  a  home 
in  this  wretched  cellar,  where,  within  a  week  after  their  arrival, 
on  the  same  day  she  thanked  God  for  the  birth  of  her  first 
child  and  wept  the  loss  of  its  father.  Upon  her  recovery  from 
her  confinement,  she  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  procure  needle-work 
or  washing.  Her  efforts  to  find  a  place  at  service  were  equally 
unsuccessful.  At  this  time,  the  opportunity  being  presented, 
she  put  her  child  from  her  bosom,  and  went  out  as  a  nurse. 

Mrs.  Tenly  could  at  least  have  gone  for  a  while  to  the  alms- 
house,  which,  though  humiliating  to  the  poorest  and  lowest, 
was  yet  better  than  the  sacrificing  of  an  infant's  life,  by  cru- 
elly and  dishonestly  depriving  it  of  its  natural  rights. 

There  is  but  one  circumstance  that  can  exempt  a  woman 
from  the  duty  of  nursing  her  own  children — and  that  is,  ill 
health ;  and  even  then  she  has  no  right  to  engage  a  nurse,  if, 
by  so  doing,  she  deprives  another  babe  of  its  mother. 

********** 

One  morning,  soon  after  Mrs.  Dunn  got  about  again,  her 
nurse  enta  <jd  the  room  and  said,  weeping, — 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  65 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  take  charge  of  your  little 
boy,  to-day  ?" 

"  Why  ?   What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  My  child  is  dying." 

"  Indeed  !  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  Yes,  certainly  j  ou 
must  go ;  but  what  ails  your  child  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  madam;  ever  since  I  left  her  to  come  hcr«, 
she  has  pined  away." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Kate ;  "  I  will  call  over  and  see 
her;  or — no,  I  could  do  no  good.  I  will  give  you  a  note  to 
my  sister,  Mrs.  Leslie ;  she  will  visit  and  assist  you ;  it's  all 
in  her  line.  But  get  a  physician,  and  tell  him  to  send  his 
iccount  to  me ;  and — stay,  here  is  your  month's  wages." 

Thanking  Mrs.  Dunn  for  her  kindness,  as  she  received  the 
lote  and  the  money,  Mrs.  Tenly  withdrew. 

An  hour  after  this,  Mrs.  Leslie  stood  by  the  bed  of  the 
lick  child. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Leslie,  is  she  dying  ?"  sobbed  the  mother. 

"  Not  dying,  surely  not  dying,  and  not  in  any  immediate 
danger,  I  think — I  hope." 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Leslie,  ma'am,  God  bless  you  for  saying  that 
If  my  baby  only  lives,  I  shall  never  think  anything  else  a  trou- 
ble in  the  world.  I'd  slave  for  her  all  my  life." 

"  We  must  get  her  into  a  sweet,  clean,  airy  room,  and  then, 
with  the  doctor's  prescription  and  her  mother's  nursing,  she 
will  recover." 

"  Oh !  ma'am,  if  I  only  knew  how  to  thank  you ;  but  she 
won't  nurse,  ma'am." 

"  You've  tried  her,  then." 

"  When  I  first  came  home  I  did,  but  she  couldn't;  and  then 
I  gave  her  the  powder,  and  she  went  to  sleep." 

"  She  is  awake ;  try  her  now." 

Mrs.  Tenly  took  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  placed  it  to  her 
breast. 

The  babe  looked  up  into  her  mother's  face  with  a  sort  of 


66  THE     MARRIED     SHREWJ     A 

sickly  inquiring  smile,  then  let  her  head  sink  upon  her  mother's 
bosom  with  a  sigh  of  intense  satisfaction. 

"  Poor  little  thing,  she  is  happy  now,"  said  her  mother 
smiling  through  her  tears. 

"Oh!  she  will  soon  get  well,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  cheerfully 
"  And  now,  Mrs.  Tenly,  as  I  too  have  a  little  family  to  look 
after  at  home,  I  must  leave  for  the  present,  but  I  will  seiid 
my  daughter  over,  this  afternoon." 

"I  have  a  commission  for  you,  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie 
to  Sylvia,  as  she  laid  aside  her  walking-dress. 

"And  I  have  a  commission  for  you,  too,  dear  mamma;  but 
•what  is  yours?" 

"  You  must  get  up  all  your  little  sister's  last  winter's  clothes, 
and  tie  them  into  a  bundle  ;  then  tell  Martha  to  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  attend  me  in  the  pantry,  bringing  a  large  basket 
with  her  ;  finally,  get  on  your  pelisse  and  hood,  to  accompany 
her  to  see  a  sick  child." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  mamma,  I  understand  ;"  and  Sylvia  dew  to  obey, 
but,  dashing  back  in  an  instant,  she  said  — 

"  Oh  !  I  forgot,  mamma,  to  tell  you  my  commission,  or, 
rather,  uncle's.  Uncle  Harry  has  been  here,  and  says,  will 
you  please  find  him  a  housekeeper  ;  he  wants  one  directly." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  very  glad  he  does,  Sylvia  ;  I  think  we  can  find 
a  very  good  housekeeper  for  uncle." 

The  basket  of  necessaries  was  packed  and  sent.  The  next 
day  Mrs.  Tenly  and  her  sick  child  were  removed  into  com- 
fortable lodging  ;  and  a  fortnight  after,  when  the  latter  was 
recovered,  she  was  put  into  the  cars,  and  sent  twenty  miles 
into  the  country,  to  a  farm  owned  and  occupied  by  Mr.  Harry 
Reason. 


A  month  succeeding  these  events,  the  Leslies  and  Madame 
D'Arbiay  were  spending  a  day  at  Captain  Dunn's.  The  party 
were  assembled  at  dinner  Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  67 

open,  nnd  Uncle  Harry  Gleason  stalked  into  the  room,  in  & 
great  heat,  exclaiming — 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Leslie,  my  admirable  niece !  T  always  took 
you  for  a  model  of  propriety.  The  veriest  demirep  could  not 
havA  made  a  more  glaring  solecism  in  morals  than  you  have 
done !" 

The  company  all  glanced  in  astonishment  from  Uncle  Harry 
to  Mary,  who  was  looking  aghast. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  continued  Uncle  Harry,  "  a  pretty  mess  you 
have  made  of  it.  I  had  a  good  opinion  of  you,  Marj  !  I  send 
to  you,  rather  than  to  an  intelligence  office ;  I  ask  you  to  find 
me  a  proper  housekeeper.  And  what  do  you  do  ?  Whom  do 
you  send  ?" 

"  I  earnestly  hope,"  said  Mary,  recovering  her  self-posses- 
sion, "  that  Jane  Tenly  has  in  no  particular  discredited  my 
recommendation.  She  was  well  thought  of  in  her  humble 
sphere.  I  always  thought  her  a  very  good  soul." 

"  And  am  I  to  have  every  good  soul  in  the  world  thrust 
upon  me?  I  hate  good  souls.  No,  ma'am  !  I  didn't  want  a 
good  soul,  nor  a  good  soul's"  baby,  neither.  I  wanted  a  house- 
keeper— meaning  a  staid,  serious,  settled  old  body,  who  could 
tuck  me  up  at  night,  and  read  me  to  sleep  with  Congressional 
speeches  and  the  President's  messages,  and  so  on." 

"  Well,  couldn't  Jane  do  that,  uncle  ?" 

"  Oh  !  of  course  she  could,  beau-/y-ful-ly,"  sneered  the  old 
man. 

"Of  what  do  you  complain,  then,  sir,  and  how  can  we 
further  serve  or  satisfy  you  ?"  inquired  LesMe. 

"  Of  what  do  I  complain  ?"  exclaimed  Uncle  Harry.  "  I 
complain  of  a  blue-eyed  woman,  sir,  and  a  baby,  sir.  I  sent 
to  Madame  Propriety,  there,  for  a  housekeeper;  and  what 
does  she  send  me,  sir  !  A  rosy-cheeked  woman,  and — and 
— a  baby,  sir !  What  will  the  neighbours  say  ?  A  man 
of  my  age !  a  gentleman  of  my  integrity,  sir !  A  woman 
•vith  b-'^ht  brown  hair  and  a  baby,  sir  I Well,''  said 


68  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;   A 

the  old  man,  suddenly  dropping  his  voice,  "  there  was  but  one 
thing  to  be  done,  and  that  I  did." 

No  one  replied. 

"  And  that  1  did." 

Still  all  were  silent. 

"  Why  the  devil  don't  some  of  you  ask  me  what  I  did  ?" 
cried  Uncle  Harry,  losing  patience. 

"  Sent  her  away  again  ?"  suggested  Mary. 

"JVb,  ma'am,  I  didn't.  I  never  sent  a  woman  away  again 
in  all  my  life,  and  never  mean  to.  No,  no ;  you  know  what 
I  did  well  enough,  although  you  affect  stupidity,  because  you 
think  it  will  be  a  mortification  to  me  to  tell  it  of  myself.  But 
it  ain't,  though  !  not  a  bit.  Guess  I'm  old  enough  to  judge 
for  myself.  Should  like  to  know  what  right  any  body 
has  to  find  fault  with  what  /do.  Well!  why  in  the  devil 
don't  some  of  you  ask  me  what  I  did  ?" 

"  What  did  you  do,  sir  ?"  asked  Mary,  coaxingly. 

"  I  married  Jane  Tenly  and  the  baby — that's  what  I  did." 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  no  1"  exclaimed  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  vexation 
and  distress. 

Kate  drew  herself  up,  and  regarded  her  uncle — scorn 
writhing  her  lip,  and -anger  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

Leslie,  after  an  involuntary  expression  of  surprise  and  dis- 
pleasure, was  silent. 

Captain  Dunn  broke  into  a  hearty  and  good-humoured 
laugh,  as  he  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  seized  and  shook  Uncle 
Harry's  hands,  exclaiming — 

"  Well  done  !  that's  right !  wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart. 
God  bless  you  1" 

"Ah!  Dunn,  you've  got  some  heart.  You  see,  Dunn,  the 
old  man  did  want  some  one  to  love.  Here  are  my  nieces:,  to 
be  sure ;  but  I  am  only  a  fourth  or  fifth-rate  person  in  their 
affections ;  so,  Dunn,  you  know,  the  old  fellow  wanted  soiiio 
one  to  love,  who  would  be  alwa)  i  in  his  sight ;  and  that  poor, 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTOR/.          09 

meek,  blue-eyed  woman  wanted  a  friend ;    and  so   you  see, 
Dunn" 

"  I  see  !  I  see  !  It  was  the  best  thing  you  ever  did  in  your 
life.  You  have  given  a  worthy  young  woman  a  comfortable 
home,  a  respectable  position,  and,  above  all,  an  excellent  hus» 
baud;  and  you  have  secured  for  yourself  a  handsome,  good, 
and  grateful  wife.  I  shall  be  always  happy  to  receive  you 
both  at  my  house." 

"  Captain  Dunn  has  been  indulging  too  freely  in  wine,  sir, 
else  he  would  have  added — in  the  basement  story,  as  visiters 
of  her  late  friends,  the  housemaid  and  cook  !" 

"  Catherine  !"  exclaimed  Captain  Dunn,  sternly. 

Uncle  Harry  Gleason  bowed  to  the  ground  with  great 
ceremony,  and  withdrew. 

********* 

"  I  fear  that  Captain  Dunn  does  indulge  too  freely  in  th« 
use  of  wine,"  whispered  Mary  Leslie,  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  Leslie  that  evening. 

"  I  know  he  does,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?"  asked  Mary,  sadly. 

"  Very  little,  I  fear.  Something,  however,  we  must  attempt. 
I  will  speak  to  Dunn.  I  will  be  in  his  company  more  than 
hitherto.  And — you  must  remonstrate  with  Catherine.  I 
fear  she  does  not  make  herself  or  her  home  agreeable  to  her 
husband." 

"  I  know  slu  does  not,"  sighed  Mary. 

The  entrance  of  Madame  D'Arblay  and  Sylvia,  attended  by 
a  servant  with  lights,  arrested  the  conversation.  The  ladies 
gathered  around  their  work-table  with  their  sewing,  and  Les- 
lie, opening  a  book,  read  aloud  while  they  plied  their  needles. 
A  far  diffarent  scene  was  enacting  at  Captain  Dunn's. 

When  the  departure  of  their  guests  had  left  the  Dunns 
alone — 

'*  I  am  grieved  and  astonished,  Catherine,"  said  Captair 


70  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

Dunn,  "  that  you  should  have  treated  your  uncle  so  disrespect- 
fully and  cruelly." 

"  I  am  grieved,  but  not  astonished,  Captain  Dunn,  that  you 
Lave  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to  yourself  and  me,  as  to 
have  invited  that  woman  here.     A  man  whoso  faculties  arc 
always  obscured  by  the  fumes  of  wine  cannot  astonish  me  by 
any  act  of  absurdity  or  wickedness." 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  madam  ?" 
"  I  mean,  sir,  that  you  are  never  sober,  and  therefore  cannot 
be  considered  a  responsible  human  being." 
"  Catherine !" 

"Don't  you  understand  me  yet  ?  You  are  more  stupid 
than  I  supposed  even.  In  common  parlance,  then,  you  are 
always  drunk — and  generally,  by  consequence,  a.  fool." 

"  This  is  not  to  be  endured  !"  exclaimed  Captain  Dunn, 
rising  hastily,  and  pacing  the  floor  with  rapid  strides ;  thec 
pausing  before  his  wife,  he  said  severely — 

"  You  presume,  Catherine,  upon  your  sex,  and  your  feeble- 
ness. But  have  a  care  j  where  weakness  and  womanhood  do 
not  imply  delicacy  and  gentleness,  they  lose  their  claim  upon 
our  forbearance." 

"  Do  you  threaten  me,  sir?"  whispered  Catherine,  in  a  low, 
smooth,  contemptuous  tone  of  irony.  "  But  of  course,  why 
need  I  be  surprised  ?  A  man  who  can  connive  at  the  marriage 
of  his  cast-off  mistress  with  an  honoured  relative,  and  then 
insult  his  wife  by  inviting  the  abandoned  creature  to  his  house 
is  capable  of  any  act  of  meanness." 

Exasperated  to  frenzy  by  the  false  and  monstrous  charges 
contained  in  this  speech,  delirious  with  anger,  Captain  Dunn 
raised  his  hand,  and  a  blow  rang  sharply  upon  the  cheek  _of 
Catherine ;  and  seizing  his  hat,  he  rushed  madly  from  the 
room  and  the  house. 

A  few  minutes  after,  Mrs.  Dunn's  maid  found  her  in  strong 
nya*erics,  and  in  that  condition  she  was  conveyed  to  bod. 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.  71 

"  What  in  Heaven's  name  is  all  this  dreadful  business.  Cap- 
tain ?"  inquired  Uncle  Harry,  as  he  entered  a  private  parlour 
in  the Hotel,  occupied  temporarily  by  Captain  Dunn. 

"  I  have  disgraced  myself — that  is  the  amount  of  it,"  replied 
Captain  Dunn,  bitterly. 

"  Been  drinking  ?" 

"No,  no;  at  least,  not  much." 

"  Been  forging '(" 

11 1  have  acted  the  part  of  a  poltroon." 

"  Not  received  an  insult  or  a  blow,  without  knocking  the 
dealer  of  it  down — not  that?" 

11  Worse,  far  worse  than  that ;  I  have  struck  my  wife." 

"  Hallelujah  !  glad  on't — better  late  than  never.  Hope  yea 
gave  her  a  good  sound  drubbing  while  you  were  at  it.  She's 
wanted  it  a  long  time,  the  huzzy;  she'll  treat  you  all  the  bet- 
ter, now  she's  got  it,  'specially  if  she  has  any  fear  of  the  dis- 
cipline being  repeated.  Never  you  mind — I'm  her  uncle,  and 
her  natural  guardian;  and  /approve  of  it — /uphold  you  ia 
it,"  quoth  Uncle  Harry,  his  thoughts  reverting  to  Kate's  treat- 
ment of  himself  the  day  previous.  "  Mind,  /give  you  leave, 
and  I'm  her  uncle." 

"Pray,  do  not  talk  so  upon  this  subject,  sir.  Believe  me, 
I  am  sunk  very  low  in  my  own  opinion.  I  have  long  dreaded 
this.  I  would  to  Heaven  my  patience  had  held  out  a  few 
days  longer,  until  my  ship  sailed.  Then  this  rupture  might 
have  been  delayed,  or  might  never  have  occurred.  Great  God ! 
that  I,  that  I,  should  have  raised  my  hand  against  a  weak, 
defenceless  woman !" 

"Well,  what  of  it?  I  don't  see  why  weak,  defenceless 
women  are  not  to  be  punished  when  they  deserve  it,  as  well 
a£  weak,  defenceless  children,"  exclaimed  the  old  monster. 
"  Would  you  feel  any  great  compunction  for  having  chastised 
a  weak,  defenceless  child,  if  he  deserved  it  ?" 

"  Your  opinions  are  extremely  revolting,  Mr.  Gleason ;  but 
I  sent  for  you  to  request  your  good  offices  with  Kate.  Sho 
4 


72  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

refuses  to  see  me,  and  returns  unopened  all  my  not.^s  I  wish 
you  to  see  her,  implore  her  forgiveness  for  me,  an<l  bring  IDG 
her  answers.  Will  you  do  this?" 

"  No,  I  sha'n't;  for  that  would  neutralize  the  good  effee* 
of  the  drubbing." 

"  Then  I  must  see  Mrs.  Leslie  immediately.  Will  you  ex 
cuse  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  accompany  you." 

The  two  gentlemen  then  left  the  house,  and  took  their  way 
to  Leslie's  together. 

The  earnest  efforts  of  the  Leslies  failed,  however,  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  between  the  parties.  Catherine  remained 
h>  her  own  room,  outraged  and  indignant ;  and  Captain  Dunn 
at  his  hotel,  busily  preparing  for  his  voyage. 

*         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         * 

The  last  day  of  Captain  Dunn's  stay  arrived.  His  ship 
was  to  sail  the  next  morning.  He  had  made  a  last  ineffectual 
effort  to  see  his  wife.  She  delighted  to  afflict  him  to  the  last 
safe  moment,  yet  designed  to  have  a  full  reconciliation  before 
his  departure.  "  Yes,"  said  she,  "  to-morrow  morning  I  will 
see  him,  and  forgive  him.  It  will  not  do  to  let  him  go  away 
in  despair;  for  during  three  years'  absence,  he  may  cease  to 
love  me — and  now  this  evening  to  shine  the  most  resplendent 
Btar  in  the  constellation  of  beauty  to  be  assembled  at  Madame 
Le  Normand's  ball.  It  is  very  fortunate,  by  the  by,  that  this 
shocking  affair  has  not  got  wind  yet." 

That  night,  Mrs.  Dunn,  superbly  attired,  seemingly  in  high 
beauty  and  spirits,  entered  the  magnificent  saloon  of  Madame 
Le  Normand. 

That  night,  at  the  same  hour,  Captain  Dunn  took  his  melan- 
choly way  towards  his  now  desolated  home.  Before  leaving 
his  native  shores,  he  wished  to  look  again  upon  the  face  of  his 
infant  son.  The  whole  front  of  the  house  looked  dark  as  he 
approached  it.  Entering  and  groping  his  way  through  the 
gloom,  along  the  dark  passage  and  up  tlie  stairs,  he  readied 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     "WIFE'*      VICTOR  1.          73 

the  nursery  door,  and  entered  the  room.  A  small  lamp  waa 
sitting  on  the  hearth  j  its  feeble  rays  revealed  a  scene  that  sent 
all  the  blood  from  the  father's  cheek.  Straight  up  in  the  bed 
sat  the  infant,  in  an  attitude  fixed  and  immovable  as  marble 
— his  cheek  blanched — his  eyes  wide  open  in  a  frightful  stare 
— his  lips  apart  with  horror,  while  his  gaze  was  fixed  in  dea.lly 
terror  upon  a  dressed-up  bugaboo  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  In 
an  instant,  seizing  the  bundle  of  sticks  and  rags  that  composed 
this  figure,  Captain  Dunn  threw  it  out  of  the  window,  and 
turned  to  his  boy.  The  removal  of  the  figure  seemed  to  have 
dissolved  the  icy  chain  that  bound  the  boy ;  for  he  now  fell 
back  in  the  bed,  in  violent  convulsions.  Seizing  the  bell-rope 
Captain  Dunn  now  rang  a  peal  that  presently  brought  every 
remaining  servant  in  the  house  to  his  presence. 

"  Thomas,"  said  he  to  the  first  one  that  appeared,  "run 
immediately  for  Doctor  Wise.  William,"  said  he  to  the  other 
man,  "  where  is  Mrs.  Dunn  ?" 

"  At  Madame  Le  Normand's  ball,  sir." 

"  And  her  nurse  ?" 

"  Gone  out  to  a  tea-drinking,  sir." 

"  And  the  housemaid  and  cook  ?     Gone,  too,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  leave  the  room.     Stay,  call  me  a  carriage." 

«  Yes,  sir." 

Captain  Dunn  now  turned  to  his  son,  whose  spasms  were 
over,  and  having  placed  him  in  a  comfortable  position,  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  physician. 

At  length,  the  Doctor  entered,  and,  having  looked  at  tha 
child,  ordered  a  warm  bath,  wrote  a  prescription  and  sent  i* 
off. 

"  And  now,  Doctor,  is  there  any  chance  of  his  recovery  ?"  in 
quired  Captain  Dunn,  after  having  given  the  Doctor  a  full 
account  .if  the  causes  that  led  to  the  child's  seizure. 

"  For  his  full  recovery,  very  little — this  will  be  likely  to 
affect  him  through  life." 


74  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

Dunn  groaned. 

"  Doctor,  could  he  be  removed  with  safety,  by  a  steamboat 
journey,  some  ninety  or  a  hundred  miles  up  the  river  ?" 

"  With  perfect  safety,"  said  the  Doctor, 

"  Then,  sir,  1  will  trouble  you,  if  you  please,  to  write  at 
length  your  orders  for  his  treatment  on  the  journey,  as  1  shall 
take  him  away  to-night." 

The  physician,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  complied,  and  soon 
after  took  his  leave. 

Captain  Dunn,  raising  the  sleeping  infant  in  his  arms,  threw 
a  cloak  around  him,  descended  the  stairs,  entered  the  carriage, 
which  had  been  some  time-  before  the  door,  and  was  driven 
towards  the  steamboat  wharf. 

At  the  same  moment  of  time,  Catherine  Dunn,  radiant  with 
beauty  and  gayety,  was  led,  smiling,  to  fter  place  at  the  head 

of  the  cotillion  forming  in  Madame  Le  Normand's  saloon. 
********** 

Day  was  dawning  when  Mrs.  Captain  Dunn  drove  up  to  her 
own  door,  and,  wearied  out  with  the  night's  dissipation,  would 
have  immediately  sought  her  pillow,  when  her  maid  placed  a 
note  in  her  hand.  She  took  it  listlessly,  and  ran  her  eyea 
over  its  contents.  They  were  as  follows : 

"Farewell,  Catherine;  farewell,  infatuated  woman,  undu- 
teous  wife  !  neglectful  mother  I  I  leave  you  to  the  retribution 
that  I  pray  may  overtake  you — that  I  pray  may  overtake  you, 
in  the  hope  that  it  may  bring  you  to  repentance,  happily  to 
reformation.  I  take  your  child  where  he  may  find,  what  he 
has  never  yet  possessed,  a  mother's  care  and  love — our  child, 
whom  your  neglect  has  possibly  made  an  idiot  for  life." 

Frightful  was  the  picture  of  passion  presented  by  the 
Wretched  Catherine !  Tearing  the  paper  to  atoms,  she  threw 
the  fragments  upon  the  floor,  and  would  have  ground  them  to 
powder  with  her  heel.  Her  bosom  heaved  with  fierce  con- 
vulsions— her  eyes  scintillated — then  pressing  her  hands  sud- 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIPE'S     VICTORY.          75 

dcniy  to  hei  mouth,  she  sank  upon  a  chijr,  and  thence  upon 
the  floor,  a  stream  of  dark  blood  trickling  from  her  lips. 
Her  maid  in  great  alarm  raised  and  placed  her  upon  the  bed  j 
then,  summoning  her  fellow  servants,  sent  off  for  Mrs.  Leslie 
and  the  physician.  Both  soon  appeared.  Mrs.  Dunn  had 
broken  a  blood-vessel,  and  the  long-continued  hemorrhage  left 
ner  in  a  state  of  utter  prostration,  with  her  life  in  imminent 
danger. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  as  Catherine  lay  prostrate, 
placid,  snowy,  "  like  a  broken  lily  on  its  icy  bed,"  her  car, 
rendered  supernaturally  acute  by  her  condition,  heard  the 
physician's  whispered  injunction  to  her  attendants — 

"  She  must  be  kept  perfectly  quiet ;  complete  rest  is  abso- 
lutely necessary.  She  must  not  be  permitted  to  raise  a  hand, 
scarcely  to  lift  an  eye-lid,  or  hear  a  sound.  Even  with  the 
best  precaution,  a  second  hemorrhage  will  be  very  apt  to  ensue. 
Her  life  hangs  upon  a  cobweb  shred." 

"  And  is  Death  hovering  so  near  ?"  thought  Catherine ;  and 
in  an  instant,  as  though  invoked  by  the  powerful  magicians, 
Conscience  and  Fear,  the  errors  of  her  past  life  arose  before 
her.  Catherine,  like  most  young  people  in  high  health,  had 
never  contemplated  the  possibility  of  death  approaching  her- 
self, except  at  the  close  of  a  long,  long  life,  at  a  remote,  out 
of  sight  distance.  Late  at  night,  Mrs.  Leslie,,  who  had  never 
left  Catherine's  side  since  her  attack,  was  stealing  from  the 
room.  The  quick  senses  of  the  invalid  detected  her. 

"  Oh  !  do  not  leave  me,  dearest  Mary,  to  die  alone  here, 
with  the  servants." 

"  Dearest  Catherine,  I  must  go  home  a  few  moments,  lo 
attend  to  some  little  family  matters.  I  will  return  very  soon  " 

"  Ah  !  go,  go;  I  must  not  detain  you  from  your  family.  I 
have  no  claim  upon  you,  nor  upon  any  human  being  nuiu. 
There  was  one  upon  whose  love  I  had  every  claim.  He  would 
have  worn  out  his  life  in  watching  by  my  side — but  hitu  I 
have  outraged,  him  I  have  alienated " 


76  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

•''Oh  !  Catherine  !  Catherine  !  do  be  quiet,  love ;  I  will  stay 
with  you ;  but  you  must  be  perfectly  quiet." 

The  injunction  came  too  late.  The  hemorrhage  broke  out 
again,  and  the  patient  was  brought  immediately  to  the  very 

Terge  of  the  grave. 

********* 

At  early  dawn,  at  the  same  hour  of  Catherine's  attack,  a 
Steamboat  stopped  for  a  few  moments,  to  land  a  passenger, 
near  the  beautiful  town  of  C.,  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Hudson. 
Captain  Dunn,  leaving  the  boat  with  his  boy  in  his  arms,  took 
his  way  towards  a  white  cottage,  nearly  hidden  amidst  the 
trees,  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  Passing  quickly  through  the 
white  painted  gate,  and  up  the  neat  gravel  walk  bordered  with 
roses,  he  paused  and  rang  the  door  bell.  Early  as  was  the 
hour,  the  inmates  of  the  cottage  were  astir.  He  was  met  by 
a  cleanly  maid  servant,  who  showed  him  into  a  neat  parlour, 
and  went  to  summon  her  mistress.  An  old  lady,  in  the  dress 
of  the  Friends,  entered  the  room,  and  embraced  the  visiter, 
saying : 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  my  dear  son.  How  hast  thou  been 
these  many  days  ?" 

"Indifferent,  mother;  indifferent!  but,"  said  he,  uncover- 
ing the  infant,  "  I  have  brought  you  my  son ;  if  you  love  me, 
dear  madam,  take  charge  of  him  during  my  absence." 

"But  thy  wife,  Lemuel?  Where  is  she?  How  is  she?" 
inquired  the  lady,  as  she  received  the  child,  and  proceeded  to 
disencumber  him  of  his  outer  garments. 

"  I  know  not !  I  care  not  I" 

<l  What  meanest  thou,  my  son?" 

"  Listen  to  me,  dear  mother;  I  have  but  an  hour  to  speud 
with  you — I  must  be  on  shipboard  by  noon  to-day — so  1  must 
be  brief  with  my  explanations."  Captain  Dunn  here  gave  a 
rapid  account  of  the  troubles  of  his  married  life.  When  he 
concluded,  break  fas  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  the  old 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.          77 

lady  arose  to  pour  out  the  coffee,  merely  saying,  by  way  of  com* 
incut  upon  her  son's  story — 

"  Oh  !  these  young  people  !  these  young  people !  One  would 
think,  with  health,  and  youth,  and  competence,  they  would 
feel  happiness  to  be  a  dutyj  but  with  their  pride  and  their 
passions,  their  petulance  and  haste,  they  cast  away  God's 
richest  gifts  with  ingratitude,  as  things  of  nought." 

Twenty-four  hours  from  this  time,  Captain  Dunn,  bearing 
an  aching  heart  in  his  bosom,  had  left  the  shores  of  his  native 
country. 

********* 

Two  months  succeeding  this  event,  Catherine  Dunn  sat  up 
in  bed  for  the  first  time  since  her  illness.  Her  thin  and  snowy 
face,  with  the  blue  tracing  of  the  veins  on  her  temples  and 
forehead,  the  languid  fall  of  the  long  eyelashes,  the  gentle 
drooping  of  the  whole  figure,  gave  to  her  beauty  a  delicate  and 
spiritual  air  it  had  never  possessed  before,  while  the  deprecating 
softness  of  her  manner  silently  appealed  to  the  sympathies  of 
all  around  her. 

An  elderly  woman,  who  had  been  her  faithful  nurse  for 
many  weeks  past,  and  to  whose  skill  and  unwearied  attention, 
uuder  Providence,  she  owed  her  life,  now  entered  the  room. 

"If  you  please,  Rebecca,  I  will  lie  down  now;  I  fee! 
faint." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  she  tenderly  placed 
her  patient  in  a  recumbent  posture,  inquiring  kindly  if  she 
"felt  comfortable." 

"Very  comfortable,"  answered  Catherine j  then  looking 
affectionately  at  her  nurse,  she  said : 

"  How  much  I  owe  you,  dear  Rebecca — not  only  my  life, 
l-iit  the  knowledge  of  that  truth  that  makes,  life  of  value  !" 

"  Thy  gratitude  is  due  to  thy  Creator,  my  child,  and  not  to 
the  feeble  instrument  he  has  been  phased  to  use.  Thou 
wouldst  not  thank  the  cup,  Catherine,  for  the  coffee  thou  hast 
just  taken." 


7  THE     MARRIED     SHREWj     A 

"Ah,  why  will  you  not  let  me  thank  you,  my  dear  friend— 
friena  mdeed,  as  well  as  well  as  Friend  by  profession  ?  Think 
— -when  you  came  to  me,  I  was  as  a  shipwrecked  mariner  on 
on  ocean  rock — all,  all  lost — my  life  not  worth  a  moment's 
purchase — or,  if  possibly  spared,  objectless  and  aimless.  Re» 
b"cca!  Rebecca!  though  my  first,  best  gratitude  is  due  to 
God,  I  must  thank  you  too,  I  must  love  you  too." 

"I  had  an  interest,  dear  child,  in  thy  recovery,  and  in 
thy  spiritual  health,"  said  the  nurse,  looking  steadily  at 
Catherine. 

"  Tell  me  your  matron  name,"  gazing  earnestly  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  thy  husband's  mother,  Catherine." 

The  dreaded  mother-in-law !  The  hated  mother-in-law ! 
Catherine  looked  in  the  sweet  face  of  her  nurse,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  There,  my  child,  drink  this,  and  compose  thyself,"  said 
fche  old  lady,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water.  Then  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Yes,  Catherine,  thou  wilt  think  it  strange  that  a 
woman  of  my  sober  class  and  age  should  be  masquerading  in 
this  way ;  but  it  came  to  pass  after  this  manner.  Nearly  two 
months  ago,  hearing  that  thou  wert  ill,  I  came  down  to  visit 
thee.  Finding  thce  in  great  need  of  a  mother's  care,  I  deter- 
mined to  remain  with  thee.  As  thy  state  was  very  precarious, 
and  any  surprise  would  have  killed  thee,  I  agreed  with  Mary 
Leslie  not  to  make  myself  known,  but  to  attend  thee  as  thy 
nurse  under  my  given  name  only.  Thou  knowest  many  of 
my  sect  are  called  only  by  their  given  names.  Thence  it  came 
more  natural." 

"  Ah  !  dearest  madam  !  I  will  try  to  repay  you  with  a  daugh- 
ter's love  and  duty;  but  the  debt  is  stupendous.  And  now, 
Icar  madam,  will  you  tell  me  about  my  boy  ?  I  guessed  that 
•aiy  husband,  that  the  Captain,  had  carried  him  to  you." 

" Thy  infant  is  restored  to  health,  Catherine;  but  for  the 
better  salubrity  of  the  air,  I  left  him  at  home,  in  charge  of  a 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.          79 

careful  and  trust-worthy  woman,  who  has  been  my  onrn  per- 
sonal attendant  for  many  years." 

"  And  my  husband — was  he  very  much  embittered  against 
me?" 

"  He  left  thee  in  high  displeasure,  Catherine." 

"  Ah  !  yes !  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise ;  and  yet  I 
loved  him,  mother.  Wild  and  passionate  as  I  have  been,  I 
loved  them  both — my  husband  and  child.  Yet  I  never  dreamed 
how  deeply  until  now,  that  they  are  gone  from  me." 

"  Thou  shalt  see  thy  boy  soon,  dear  Catherine.  When  tliou 
art  able  to  travel,  I  propose  to  take  thee  to  my  country  house 
on  the  Hudson.  There,  the  pure  air,  the  quiet  scene,  and  the 
company  of  thy  boy,  will  effect  thy  complete  restoration  to 
health." 

"  But  will  my  husband  ever  forgive  me  ?"  sighed  Catherine. 

"  He  should  not  be  obdurate,  for  he  has  something  to  for- 
give in  himself.  A  little  more  firmness  on  his  part  would 
have  saved  you  much  misery,  had  that  firmness  been  exercised 
in  the  first  days  of  your  marriage." 

"  It  would  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  firmness,  though, 
mother ;  for  in  those  days,  although  I  loved  the  Captain,  there 
was  a  perverse  devil  always  prompting  me  to  try  him,  to  see 
how  far  I  miyht  go  with  impunity — a  wish  to  drive  him  to 
extremity — and  I  never  loved  him  better  than  when  I  saw  him 
in  a  thorough  rage.  This  must  have  been  insanity;  was  it  not, 
mother  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  think,  as  thou  saidst,  it  was  Satan,"  saia  the 
placid  Quaker.  "  And  now  I  cannot  allow  thee  to  talk'a  mo- 
ment longer;  there  is  a  fever  spot  already  on  thy  cheek;  so 
I  shall  draw  the  curtains,  and  leave  thee  to  repose,  my  child." 
********* 

Three  years  from  the  time  of  the  commencement  of  Cathe- 
rine Dunn's  acquaintance  with  her  mother-in-law,  on  a  winter's 
evening,  the  white  cottage  at  C.  was  lit  up  brightly.  In  the 
coy  parlour  the  cloth  was  laid  for  tea.  In  a  large  arm  chair, 


80  THE     MARRIED     SHREW;     A 

in  one  corner,  sat  an  old  lady,  knitting.  Upon  an  opposite 
lounge  sat  a  young  lady,  employing  herself  with  her  needle, 
and  in  trying  to  keep  awake  an  urchin  of  some  five  yeais  old, 
who  was  hanging  about  her.  But,  ever  and  anon,  she  would 
Btart  up  and  peer  through  the  window-blinds  or  out  of  the 
door. 

At  last,  going  out  upon  the  piazza,  she  remained  some  time, 
gazing  down  the  moonlit  river.  Returning  to  the  parlour, 
shivering  with  cold,  she  said  : 

"  Do  you  not  think  the  boat  is  very  long,  dear  mother?" 

"  No,  my  dear ;  it  is  thy  impatience." 

"  But  it  is  after  seven,  madam." 

"  Our  clock  may  be  fast,  dear." 

"  Mamma,  I'm  so  sleepy,"  said  the  child. 

"  Ah,  Lem,  do  try  to  keep  awake,  that's  a  dear  boy !  See 
here,  I'll  draw  you  a  horse  on  the  slate.  Don't  you  want  to 
Bee  papa?" 

"  I  don't  believe  papa  is  coming  to-night,  and  I  don't  want 
a  horse." 

"  Hark,  mother  !  I  hear  the  steamboat  paddle,"  said  Cathe- 
rine. "  Listen !" — and  the  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  and 
the  light  to  her  eyes,  as  she  stood  breathlessly  waiting.  Mean- 
time, the  steamboat  puffed  and  blew  and  paddled  past  the  town. 
There  were  no  passengers  for  C.  that  night.  Catherine  sank 
down  in  her  chair,  the  picture  of  disappointment  and  de- 
jection. 

"  Thou  must  learn  to  bear  these  disappointments  with  more 
equanimity,  Catherine.  Thy  husband  will  probably  be  up  in 
the  morning  boat.  We  must  rise  very  early  to  receive  him ; 
und,  in  order  to  do  so,  let  us  take  tea  and  go  to  bed." 

Catherine  went  to  bed,  and  tried  to  sleep,  for  she  wished 
very  much  to  be  in  good  looks  to  receive  her  husband  j  and 
Catherine  knew  that  anxious  vigils  are  bad  cosmetics.  Saying 
the  multiplication  table  backwards,  and  counting  a  thousand 
slowly,  equally  failed  ia  their  usually  soporific  effect.  At 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S     VICTORY.          81 

length,  ere  the  dawn  had  peeped  through  the  windows,  the 
distant  sound  of  the  steamboat  paddle  struck  upon  her  ear. 
Starting  from  her  bed,  and  quickly  throwing  on  her  dreseing- 
gown,  she  went  into  the  parlour.  Finding  old  Mrs.  Dunn  and' 
her  waiting-maid  already  up  and  dressed,  and  busy  with  their 
preparation  for  breakfast,  Catherine  hastened  back,  and,  quickly 
performing  her  toilet,  soon  rejoined  them,  leading  little  Lemuel 

"  Now,  dear,  thou  wilt  not  be  disappointed — there  is  the 
bell — there  are  passengers  for  C.  this  morning,"  said  the  old 
lady. 

Catherine  flew  to  the  door,  and  looked  out ;  then,  fluttering 
in  again,  she  said  quickly,  while  her  colour  went  and  came — 

"  Yes,  indeed,  mother ;    he   is   hurrying  up  the Oh  ! 

After  all,  how  will  he  receive  me  ?" 

"With  love,  my  poor  child;  with  joy;  do — don't  tremblo 
so.  Rachel,  bring  in  the  coffee."  A  step  was  heard  upon 
the  threshold — a  hand  upon  the  lock — and  Mrs.  Dunn  and 
Catherine  turned  to  greet — Mr.  Leslie.  The  blank  expression 
of  disappointment  upon  the  features  of  each  of  the  ladies,  was 
far  from  flattering  to  their  visitor.  But  the  anxious  and 
sorrowful  expression  upon  Leslie's  countenance  soon  awoke 
other  feelings. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  How  is  Mary  ?"  exclaimed  bota 
ladies  in  a  breath. 

."  Mary  is  well,"  said  he,  taking  the  band  of  each  anxious 
questioner  j  "  but,  my  dear  friends,  summon  all  your  fortitude, 
all  your  piety;  I  have  come  on  a  most  painful  errand;  I  am 
the  messenger  of  the  most  afflicting  news.  Mrs.  Dunn,  your 
eon — Catherine,  your  husband,  has  ceased  to  exist." 

"  Oh,  God  !  support  thy  handmaid  in  this  trial !"  groaned 
the  old  mother,  sinking  into  her  chair. 

A  spasm,  for  an  instant,  convulsed  the  frame  of  Catherine, 
but  left  her  perfectly  still — her  face  blanched  to  marble  white- 
nesn — her  eyes  fearfully  dilated.  Her  calmness  was  frightful. 

"Now,  toll  me  all  about  it,"  said  she,  in  a  voico  of  sup^r- 


82  THE     MARRIED     SHREWJ     A 

natural  steadiness,  "  for  I  have  a  presentiment,  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment"  

"  Yes,  Catherine,  I  will ;  for  so  I  have  been  charged,  so  I 
have  promised  to  do.  You  are  aware  that  your  husband  was 
in  the  habit  of  indulging  freely  in  the  use  of  intoxicating 
liquors." 

"  I  was  the  cause  of  it  j  I  drove  him  to  drink,"  said  Cathe- 
rine, in  the  same  unaccountable  tone. 

"  This  habit  increased  upon  him  fearfully  after  he  sailed ; 
and  while  in  port,  at  one  of  the  West  India  islands,  he  died  in 
a  fever  of  intoxication." 

"  And  he  died  without  ever  guessing  how  I  loved  him ;  he 
died  without  knowing  my  bitter  repentance ;  he  died  without 
forgiving  me !  But  who  cares  ?  who  cares  ?"  said  she,  as  her 
eyes  grew  wildly  bright,  and  she  broke  into  a  loud  maniac 
laugh,  and,  springing  up,  threw  herself — into  a  pair  of  arms 
that  pressed  her  fondly,  while  a  pleasant,  manly  voice  ex- 
claimed : 

"Why,  dearest  Kate,  you  have  been  dreaming  frightful 
dreams." 

And  so  she  had. 

Kate  raised  her  head  from  the  bosom  that  supported  it,  and 
looked  up  in  bewilderment  at  the  face  of  the  speaker.  It  was 
Captain  Lemuel  Dunn,  in  his  uniform,  whose  arms  were  around 
her.  With  a  scream  of  joy,  she  buried  her  face  once  more  in 
his  bosom,  and  twined  her  arms  around  him.  An  impatient 
rap  was  now  heard  at  the  door,  and  Uncle  Harry  Gleason's 
voice  exclaimed,  quickly : 

"  Come  !  come  !  come  !  be  quick  with  your  kissing,  Dunn ; 
we  all  want  to  see  her.  Kate,"  he  shouted,  "get  up;  we 
are  all  here,  Mary  and  all." 

"  Yes,  Kate,  get  through  your  toilet  quickly,  dear  one,  for 
they  are  all  here,  the  whole  tribe  of  Manasseh" — meaning  all 
Leslie's  folks  and  Uncle  Harry's  family — "  all  come  to  pasi 


SEQUEL     TO     THE     WIFE'S    VICTOR  T.          83 

a  few  days  with  us,  and  to  take  us  back,  they  insist,  to  speud 
Christmas  with  them." 

"  I  will  not  leave  the  room  until  I  have  obtained  your  for- 
giveness," said  Catherine,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  and  if  you 

knew  how  sorry" an  embarrassed  "  I  know,  I  know,"  from 

"  Lem  Dunn,"  cut  short  her  words,  as  they  passed  into  the 
parlour.  Kate  soon  embraced  her  sister  and  the  little  ones, 
shook  hands  with  Mr.  Leslie,  and  offered  her  cheek  to  Uncle 
Harry,  who  drew  himself  up  primly,  and  said  : 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  ma'am ;  I've  reformed  my  morale  since 
my  marriage ;  I  don't  kiss  other  men's  wives  now.  1  have 
got  one  of  my  own." 

"Now,  children,  come  to  breakfast,"  said  old  Mrs.  Dunn, 
taking  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

There  have  been  merrier  reunions,  but  there  never  was  a 
happier  family  party  than  the  one  that,  in  responding  to  the 
old  lady's  summons,  sat  down  at  her  plentiful  and  hospitable 
board. 


SYBIL    BKOTHERTON; 


on, 


THE    TEMPTATION. 


God  is  faithfal,  who  -will  not  suffer  you  to  he  tempted  above  fiat 
you  are  able ;  but  will  with  the  temptation  also  make  a  way  to  escape. 

1ST    COSINTHIASS    X.    18 

Thou  dwell'st  on  sorrow's  high  and  barren  place, 
But  round  about  the  mount  an  angel-guard, 
Chariots  of  fire,  horses  of  fire,  encamp 
To  keep  thee  safe  for  Heaven. — Mas.  EILET. 

THE   HOMESTEAD — THE   FAMILY. 

T>T  one  of  the  lower  counties  of  Maryland,  and  in  one  of 
the  first  settled  neighbourhoods,  surrounded  by  forest-crowned 
hills,  and  embosomed  in  trees,  stood  the  mansion  of  the 
Brotherton  family.  It  was  a  queer,  old-fashioned  house, 
with  many  gable  ends,  and  a  very  steep  roof,  and  windows  of 
diamond-shaped  panes  set  in  lead  sashes.  These  sashes,  with 
the  bricks  of  which  the  house  was  built,  had  been  impoited 
from  "  the  old  country." 

It  was  the  pride  of  the  Brotherton  family  that  they  had 
come  over  with  Lord  Baltimore ;  but  whether  as  friend  or  foot- 
man to  his  lordship,  tradition  saith  not.  I  can  go  no  further 
back  than  Hubert  Brotherton,  who  flourished  about  a  hundred 
years  ago.  He  was  a  notorious  fox-hunter,  and  a  celebrated 
bon  vivant  in  general ;  gave  great  hunts,  great  dinners,  and 
great  balls  and  discovered  a  great  talent  for  the  manufa<  tur- 
ing  of  wings  wherewith  his  acres  might  fly  away.  His  wings 
*'  worked  extremely  well,"  as  inventors  and  patentees  say,  M 

(85) 


86  SYBIL     BROT  II  ERTOW. 

well  that  Hubert  Biotherton,  who  at  twenty-one  cculd  stand 
upon  the  highest  point  in  his  native  county,  and,  looking 
around,  call  all  the  land  in  sight  his  own,  died  at  fr"-ty.  a  poor 
man.  It  is  a  good  illustration  of  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  the 
fact  that  the  descendants  of  Hubert  Brotherton,  who  in  1747 
owned  nearly  a  quarter  part  of  the  whole  State  of  Maryland, 
in  1848  do  not  possess  a  foot  of  land  in  any  country;  and 
that  the  children  of  James  Howlet,  a  domestic  of  the  Brother- 
ton  family,  have  risen  to  the  highest  places  in  the  Army,  the 
Navy,  and  the  Senate;  but  then  the  former  sunk  through  idle- 
ness, sensuality,  and  extravagance ;  the  latter  rose  by  energy, 
industry,  and  sobriety. 

Brotherton  Hall  had  been  some  years  in  chancery  at  the 
time  our  story  commences.  The  sole  representatives  of  the 
Brotherton  family  were,  now,  Mrs.  Judith  Brotherton  and  hef 
granddaughter  Sybil.  That  dear  old  lady  was  a  character  I 
Heaven  bless  her !  I  fear  I  shall  caricature  the  portrait  in  try- 
ing to  portray  her  excellent,  but  somewhat  complex  nature 
Just  as  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  would  have  some  beauti- 
ful ideal  face  haunting  my  imagination,  and,  taking  a  pencil 
to  draw  it,  would  produce  some  hideous  monstrosity,  and  throw 
away  pencil  and  sketch  in  disgust. 

Mrs.  Brotherton  had  been  very  handsome  in  her  youth,  and 
was  still  a  fine-looking  old  lady.  She  had  a  tall,  stately  figure, 
with  singularly  small  feet  and  hands.  Her  high  forehead  and 
small  Roman  nose  were  relieved  from  hauteur  by  the  tender 
expression  of  her  deep-blue  eyes,  and  the  beautiful  contour  of 
her  mouth.  Now,  don't  sneer,  young  ladies  and  gentlemen; 
I  have  seen  both  old  men  and  old  women  with  very  beautiful 
and  attractive  faces,  albeit  somewhat  gray  and  wrinkled,  and, 
when  I  was  a  school  girl,  I  was  very  near  falling  in  love  with 
an  old  gentleman  of  sixty,  for  his  beautiful  smile  and  musical 
voice,  and  the  fervent  soul  breathing  through  both. 

But  to  my  story.  Mrs.  Brotherton,  to  complete  her  por- 
trait, generally  wore  a  black  satin  dress,  with  a  fine  white 


THE     HOMESTEA  D — T  II  E     F  A  M  I  L  T.  87 

/Buslin  handkerchief  folded  over  her  bosom,  and  a  plain  cap 
of  lace  on  her  head.  Mrs.  Brotherton's  character  was  very 
remarkable  for  three  qualities — high  family  pride,  warm  bene- 
volence of  heart,  and  great  romance  of  mind.  Her  benevo- 
lence always  kept  her  pride  in  check,  so  that  it  never  became 
arrogant,  but  was  only  manifested  in  her  great  solicitude  in 
keeping  her  children  from  forming  acquaintances  or  connexions 
with  the  nouveaux  riches  of  the  neighbourhood.  Her  benevo- 
lence had  made  great  inroads  upon  her  small  fortune,  and,  for 
her  thirdly-mentioned  distinguishing  trait,  her  romance  of  dis- 
position, so  far  swept  her  flights  of  fancy,  that,  at  the  age  of 
sixty,  she  would  look  upon  her  beautiful  Sybil,  and  wish  she 
could  send  her  "  home,"  as  she  fondly  termed  Old  England, 
where  she  felt  sure  her  lovely  child  would  captivate  some  baron, 
earl,  or  duke.  There  was  one  rare  feature  in  her  mind  more 
charming  than  even  her  benevolence.  It  was  the  simple, 
child-like  trustfulness  of  disposition,  that  led  her  to  reverse 
the  rule  of  the  worldling,  and  to  believe  every  man  and  woman 
to  be  perfectly  good,  until  she  had  experimentally  found  thorn 
to  be  otherwise. 

Sybil  Brotherton  was  a  slight,  fair  girl,  with  a  broad  white 
forehead,  large  pensive  blue  eyes,  and  a  sweet  smile ;  a  child 
of  gentle  and  graceful  movements,  of  low  sweet  tones,  and  of 
loving  and  pious  heart.  Sybil,  too,  was  fanciful — she  could 
not  have  been  otherwise — and  so,  gently  as  she  treated  her 
]  artuers  at  the  village  dancing-school,  she  thought  them  all 
s  \d\y  unlike  the  courtly  Sir  Charles  Grandison  and  the  stately 
Lord  Mortimer;  and  she  act  down  this  world  of  reality  to  be 
a  marvellously  "  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable"  place  to  live  in, 
and  life  itself,  without  a  handsome  and  rich  lover,  to  be  a  vf  rj 
dull  story  founded  upon  fact. 


83  1YBILBROTHTLRT05. 


THE  MESSENGER— THE    NOVEL   READERS. 

IT  was  evening,  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  and 
the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  lit  up  into  blazing  splendour 
the  icicles  pendant  from  the  pine  trees  that  crowned  thr^  hil's 
surrounding  Brotherton  Hall.  In  a  quaint  old  wainsi-.cltJ 
parlour,  before  a  blazing  hickory  fire,  sat  Mrs.  Brotherton  and 
Sybil.  The  old  ladj  was  employed  in  knotting  a  valance,  the 
young  one  in  tambouring  a  muslin  apron.  Before  them  stood 
a  little,  round,  spider-legged  tea-table,  covered  with  a  damask 
cloth,  and  set  out  with  a  service  of  grotesque  old  China. 

"  It  is  growing  dusky,  my  dear  child ;  ring  for  Broom  to 
bring  in  the  lights,"  said  Mrs.  Brotherton,  as  she  rolled  up 
her  valance,  and  put  it  in  her  basket. 

Sybil  complied  by  putting  away  her  own  work  and  ringing 
a  little  silver  hand-bell  that  stood  upon  the  table.  There  were 
no  bell  wires  running  through  the  house,  like  nerves  through 
a  human  body,  in  those  days,  reader. 

The  door  opened,  and,  in  answer  to  the  summons,  an  old 
gray-haired  domestic  appeared,  with  a  candle  in  each  hand. 
"  Making  a  reverence"  as  he  entered,  he  sat  the  light  upon  the 
table,  saying,  as  he  did  so— 

"  Madam,  a  man  from  Colonel  John  Henry  Hines  is  waiting 
without.  He  brings  a  message  for  you." 

"  Bring  him  in,  Broom." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  and,  with  a  second  obeisance,  the  old  man 
left  the  room. 

There  was  this  peculiarity  about  Mrs.  Brotherton  and  her 
household,  that,  from  a  limited  intercourse  with  the  world, 
and  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  stately  old  dramas  and  novels 
of  the  last  century,  the  old  lady  had  acquired  a  somewhat  stiff 
aiid  courtly  manner  of  speaking  and  acting,  except  when 
thrown  off  her  guard  by  strong  feeling.  This  stately  manner 
Was  particularly  admired  by  her  two  old  servants,  Katy  and 
Broom,  who  copied  it  upon  all  possible  occasions 


THE     MESSENGER.  89 

"  Sarvint,  madam — sarvint,  miss,"  bowed  the  smart  foot- 
man  of  Coloiiel  Hines,  as  he  entered  the  presence  of  the  ladies 

"  1  understand  you  bear  a  message  from  Colonel  Hines,"  said 
Mrs  Brotherton. 

"  Yes,  madam;  Colonel  John  Henry  sends  his  'spects,  and 
pays,  with  your  permission,  he  will  do  himself  the  honour  of 
calling,  with  his  sister,  in  his  carriage,  to  take  Miss  Brotherton 
jto  the  ball  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Convey  my  grateful  acknrwledgments  to  Colonel  Hines, 
and  inform  him  that  I  shall  be  pleased  to  consign  Miss  Bro- 
thcrton  to  his  guardianship  for  the  evening." 

Overawed  by  the  dignity  and  bewildered  by  the  eloquence 
of  the  old  lady,  the  man  bowed  and  left  the  room,  followed  by 
Broom. 

"Broom!"  said  he,  "what  the  old  'oman  mean  by  that? 
She  going  to  let  the  gal  go  ?" 

"Mr.  Trimble!"  said  Broom,  drawing  himself  up  stiffly, 
"  in  de  first  place,  my  name  is  Mr.  Broom  ley,  and  not  Broom  : 
my  lady  is  Madam  Brotherton,  and  no  old  woman;  and  my 
yointtj  lady  is  Miss  Brotherton  of  Brotherton  Hall,  and  no 
gal." 

"  Well,  then,  but  what  am  I  to  tell  the  Colonel  ?  That  she 
is  going  to  let  the  gal — I  mean  the  young  lady — go  ?" 

"  Brcss  your  stupidity,  Mrs.  Brotherton  is  pleased  to  'sign 
Miss  Brotherton  to  his  garden  for  the  evening." 

"  'Fore  de  Lord,  I  don't  know  what  that  is ;  but  I  shall  tell 
Colonel  Hines  that  she  is  going  to  let  the  gal  go." 

"  Look  here,  you  man  in  livery,  you  green  and  yellow  poll 
parrot,  if  you  call  Miss  Brotherton  a  gal  again,  I'll  cane  you  j 
eo  be  off  with  the  message,  now,"  said  old  Broom,  flourishing 
his  black-thorn  stick. 

The  man  went  his  way,  and  old  Broom  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  carry  in  tea.  Having  set  supper  upon  the  table,  and  see* 
the  ladies  seated,  he  took  his  stand  behind  the  chair  of  Mrs. 
Broth,  n-toa. 


00  SYBIL     BROTUERTON. 

"  There,  you  may  leave  the  room  now,  Broom  If  we  should 
need  anything,  Miss  Brotherton  will  ring." 

The  old  man  went  out. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Sybil,"  said"  the  old  lady,  "  but  for  the  kind 
attention  of  Colonel  Hines,  I  should  not  permit  you  to  attend 
this  ball,  for  I  do  not  wish  the  face  of  my  granddaughter  to  be 
seen  too  often  at  these  village  balls." 

t(  Indeed,  dear  grandmother,  if  Colonel  Hines  is  to  attend  me 
there,  I  would  rather  not  go." 

"  And  why  my  dear  ?  What  objections  have  you  to  Col- 
onel Hines  ?  Is  he  not  very  polite  and  attentive  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  oppressively  so." 

"  Then,  permit  me  to  inform  you  that  the  attentions  of  Col- 
onel Hines  are  a  distinguished  honour,  even  to  Miss  Brother- 
V>n." 

"  Yet,  indeed,  dear  grandmother,  I  would  fain  dispense  with 
the  honour." 

"  Explain  your  antipathy,  if  you  please,  Sybil." 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  dear  grandmother,  he  is  quite  an 
old  gentleman,  near  thirty,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  Colonel  Hines  is  forty-seven  years  of  age,  quite  in  the  noon 
of  life." 

"  And  I,  in  the  morning  twilight,"  said  Sybil,  sadly. 

"  Any  other  objection,  Sybil  ?" 

.  "  Then  he  is  short  and  thick,  and  has  a  broad  red  face,  and 
a  bald  head,  and  a  big — that  is,  a  large — I  mean  a  stout — in  a 
word,  he  is  a  round  old  gentleman,  who  gets  into  a  great  heat 
when  he  dances — " 

"  Miss  Brotherton,  I  am  shocked,  I  am  humiliateu,  at  your 
tanguage,"  said  the  old  lady,  trying  to  look  severely  at  her 
pet.  "  Now,  do  me  the  favour  to  ring  for  Broom  to  remove 
the  tea-equipage." 

When  the  table  was  cleared  and  the  fire  replenished — 
."Now,  Broom,"  said  Mrs.  Brotherton,  "bring  in  the  box 
of  books  that  last  arrived  from  Baltimore,  and  open  it  "     The 


THE     NOVEL     READERS.  91 

box  was  brought  in,  and  the  lid  forced  off,  and  the  wealth  of 
entertainment  displayed,  all  in  handsome  bindings. 

Old  Broom  was  on  his  knee  at  the  box,  officiating  as  gentlo- 
man  usher  to  the  books. 

"  There,  Broom,  hand  me  that  book  in  red — ah !  '  Tha 
Romance  of  the  Forest.'" 

"  Oh  !  Grandmother,  let  us  read  that — that  must  be  vcrj  'j 
interesting." 

"  Here,  my  child,  take  it,"  said  the  old  lady,  forgetting  he 
displeasure.  "  Hand  me  those  others,  Broom — '  The  Bandit's 
Bride,'  ah  ha  !"  "  Oh  !  Grandmother,  that !  that !  let's  read 
that  to-night."  "  Stay,  my  love,  let  us  look  further.  You  are 
too  excitable,"  said  the  old  lady,  continuing  her  Axamination 
with-intense  interest.  "  <  The  Young  Protector,'  '  The  Royal 
Captives,'  <  The  Children  of  the  Abbey'  " — 

"  Indeed  !  oh,  grandmother,  that !  that !  we  ve  heard  so 
much  about  that — do  let's  read  that  to-night." 

"  Very  well,  then,  my  dear,  lay  it  by.  Here,  Broom,  take 
these  books  up  stairs,  and  put  them  in  the  book-case ;  and  then 
go  and  tell  Katy  to  bring  in  half  a  dozen  eggs  and  a  bottle  of 
port  (we  will  have  some  mulled  wine  before  we  retire  ta  rest, 
darling,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice  to  Sybil),  "  and  then,  Broom, 
if  you  and  Katy  wish,  you  can  come  in  and  listen  to  the  r«ad- 
ing."  Much  pleased,  the  old  man  hastened  to  execute  his 
mission.  Now,  do  not  think,  gentle  reader,  that  there  wag 
any  inconsistency  between  Mrs.  Brotherton's  pride  and  h^r 
practice  of  admitting  her  old  domestics  to  her  evening  read- 
ings. Her  people,  as  she  called  them,  had  grown  up  with  her 
— they  were  old  and  tried  servants,  perfectly  faithful  and 
respectful.  And  she  had  long  observed  with  what  greedy 
ears  they  would  linger  in  the  room  and  listen  while  she  read. 

"Well !  old  Katy  soon  brought  in  her  knitting,  and  old 
Broom  followed  her  with  his  cards  and  wool,  and  one  sat  on  a 
low  seat  in  one  corner  of  the  fire-place,  and  the  other  on  a 
eroket  in  the  opposite  corner,  quiet,  attentive,  and  pleased. 


62  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

Mrs.  Brotherton  and  Sybil  sat  before  the  fire,  with  a  work- 
stand  between  them,  upon  which  stood  a  brightly  burning 
lamp,  work-basket,  scissors,  snuffers,  &c.  The  old  lady  wiped 
her  spectacles,  put  them  on,  opened  her  book,  and  commenced 
reading,  amid  profound  silence,  to  most  attentive  and  interested 
auditors.  Sybil  employed  herself  with  her  tambour  ftame. 
When  Mrs.  Brotherton  grew  weary  of  reading  aloud,  sho 
'would  pass  the  book  to  Sybil,  and  take  up  her  knotting 
Miss  Brotherton  would  then  lay  aside  her  work  and  read  for 
an  hour ;  and  in  that  way  they  would  agreeably  relieve  each 
other  until  it  was  time  to  retire  to  rest.  Then  old  Broom 
would  mull  the  wine,  lay  the  cloth,  and  set  out  a  few  light 
sponge  cakes.  After  Mrs.  Brotherton  and  Sybil  had  partaken 
of  the  refreshments,  the  remainder  was  carried  into  the  kitchen, 
for  the  solace  of  the  old  servants.  Family  prayer  concluded 
the  evening,  and  the  little  circle  separated  for  the  night. 


THE  BALL  AND   THE  BEALX. 

THE  next  day  was  a  busy  one  with  Mrs.  Brotherton  and 
Sybil.  At  length,  at  seven  o'clock,  Miss  Brotherton  was 
arrayed  for  the  festival.  As  I  have  never  minutely  described 
Sybil  Brotherton,  I  had  better  do  it  now,  while  she  is  in  her 
"  best  bib  and  tucker,"  when  Katy  declared  she  "  looked  like 
any  angel"  (angels  don't  wear  white  satin,  mechlin  lace,  and 
pearls,  Katy).  Sybil  Brotherton  was  rather  below  the  middle 
stature,  with  a  slender  frame,  yet  full  formed,  with  rounded 
and  tapering  limbs,  and  a  grace  so  natural  that  every  move- 
ment expressed  the  poetry  of  motion.  Her  forehead  was 
Droad,. high,  and  white;  her  eyes  large,  clear,  and  blue;  her 
lips  full,  glowing,  and  beautiful.  Her.  complexion  was  of  that 
delicate  and  transparent  white,  so  seldom  seen  except  in  con- 
sumptives, and  in  her  cheeks  was  burning  that  fire  of  death 
that  so  resembles  the  rich  rose  of  health.  Her  dark  brown 
Lair  fell  in  long  and  shining  ringlets  upon  her  graceful  neck 


THE  BALL  AND  THE  BEAUX.        93 

ind  rounded  bosom.  Her  pure  and  delicate  beauty  was  set 
off  to  advantage  by  the  ric4i  dress  of  white  satin  and  niechlin 
lace,  and  the  bandeau  of  pearls  contrasted  well  with  her  dark 
hair.  The  carriage  of  Colonel  Hines  drew  up  before  the  door 
at  eight  o'clock,  and  Sybil,  curefully  wrapped  in  her  velvet 
mantle  and  hood,  was  handed  in,  and  driven  off.  On  the 
morning  after  the  ball,  Mrs.  Brotherton  and  Sybil  were  scateJ 
at  breakfast,  when  the  former  said — 

"  You  must  now  tell  me,  darling,  whom  you  saw  at  the  ball, 
and  who  were  your  partners  in  the  dance." 

"  Well,  dear  grandmother,  there  was  the  same  old  set.  The 
Etheringtons,  and  the  Somervilles,  and  the  Kinlocks,  and  the 

Oh  !  by  the  way,  Hector  Kinlock  presented  the  Hon. 

Meredith  Mills,  one  of  our  Representatives  in  Congress.  He 
is  from  the  lower  part  of  the  county,  but  he  has  purchased 
Blocksloy  Place,  and  is  coming  to  reside  in  this  neighbour- 
hood." 

"  Ah  !  Meredith  Mills.  What  sort  of  a  person  is  he,  my 
dear?" 

"  Why,  he  is  a  young  man,  talented,  I  rather  think — agree- 
able— and — not  married,  grandma,  if  you  mean  that,"  said 
Sybil,  with  a  sly  smile. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you,  rather  disposed  to  levity,  my  dear 
•Sybil ;  pray  avoid  it.  Meredith  Mills — the  name  is  familiar. 
Oh!  yes;  certainly,  I  know  the  family;  a  very  old  family, 
originally  from  Lincolnshire;  came  over  with  the  Calvertsj 
certainly,  the  Mills's  of  Meredith  Place;  and  coming  to  live 
in  our  neighbourhood;  and  not  married" 

"  And  very  much  smitten  with  Sybil  Brotherton,  and  coin- 
ing to  see  her  this  morning." 

"  Sybil !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  gravely  looking  over  the 
top  of  her  spectacles. 

"  My  dear  grandmother,  you  know  one  must  be  merry  tka 
day  after  a  bull,  if  they  are  not  fatigued." 

"  Aud  is  Mr.  Mills  coining  here  this  moruiug?" 


91  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

"  He  said  that  he  would  do  himself  the  honour  of  calling 
on  us  this  morning." 

"  And  what  did  you  icply  ?'' 

"Whj,  that  Mrs  Brotherton  would  be  happy  to  receive 
him." 

"  That  was  correct.  Did  you  form  auy  other  new  acquaint- 
Alices,  Sybil  ?" 

"N — n — o,  madam,  none  except" 

"  Except  whom  ?" 

"  Nobody,  in  fact,  but" 

"  But  whom  ?" 

"  But  a  young  gentleman  who  came  with  Mr.  Mills." 

"  And  who  was  he  ?" 

"  A  young  artist." 

"  Humph  !  you  are  reserved,  Sybil.    What  was  his  name  ?" 

«  Middleton." 

"  And  he  was  very  agreeable." 

"Dear  grandmother,  I  never  said  so." 

"  And  you  were  very  much  pleased  with  him." 

"  Dear  grandmother !  pleased  with  a  gentleman  at  the  first 
interview  !  I  thought  you  had  a  better  opinion  of  me." 

The  old  lady  smiled. 

*"  Oh  !  a  gentleman,  was  ho  ?  I  thought  you  said  he  was  a 
painter." 

"  An  artist,  grandmother,  an  artist ;  and  surely  an  artist  is 
a  gentleman,  if  any  man  is." 

"  Humpi. !  that  depends  upon  whether  he  paints  for  money 
or  amusement.  But  I  shall  not  in  future  trust  you  to  the  care 
of  any  one.  When  I  cannot  attend  you  myself  to  pubHc 
places,  you  must  remain  at  home." 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  hall  door  and  the 
entrance  of  old  Broom,  who  informed  the  ladies  that  two  gen- 
tlemen, Mr.  Mills  and  Mr.  Middleton,  had  called  and  were 
waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 


BALL     AND     THE     BEAUX.  95 

"  Go  in  and  see  them,  my  dear  Sybil.  I  will  come  pre- 
sently," said  Mrs.  Brotherton. 

As  Sybil  entered  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  Middleton  advanced 
and  led  her  to  a  seat,  with  the  courtly  grace  of  "  sixty  years 
since,"  hoping  that  Miss  Brotherton  had  suffered  no  inconve- 
nience from  the  fatigue  of  the  preceding  evening,  or  from  the 
ride  through  the  night  air. 

Miss  Brotherton  had  suffered  no  inconvenience,  and  was 
much  obliged. 

Sybil  then  addressed  herself  to  Mr.  Mills,  and  trusted  that 
he  would  find  the  neighbourhood  pleasant  and  the  neighbours 
agreeable. 

Mr.  Mills  was  pleased  with  the  neighbourhood,  and  antici 
pated  much  pleasure  from  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
its  residents. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Brotherton  en- 
tered. Both  gentlemen  arose  from  their  seats,  and  Sybil 
named  Mr.  Mills — Mr.  Middleton — Mrs.  Brotherton.  The 
latter  gentleman  met  Mrs.  Brotherton,  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and 
took  a  seat  near  her.  Mrs.  Brotherton  expressed  to  Mr.  Mid- 
dleton her  gratification  at  forming  his  acquaintance.  Mr. 
Middleton  bowed  reverently,  and  expressed  his  deep  sense  of 
the  honour  conferred  upon  him.  The  conversation  then  be- 
came general.  Mr.  Middleton  quite  won  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Brotherton,  by  descanting  upon  the  beauties  of  Brotherton 
Hall,  its  antique  look,  its  picturesque  situation,  its  pleasant 
locality,  &c.  Mrs.  Brotherton,  in  acknowledgment,  legged 
that  he  would  frequently  honour  the  Hall  with  his  presence. 
All  this  time,  Miss  Brotherton  was  trying  to  amuse  the  Hon. 
Meredith  Mills,  and  was  in  no  small  degree  astonished  and 
pleased  at  the  wondrous  penchant  her  grandmother  had  con- 
ceived for  "  the  portrait  painter  "  The  problem  was  soon 
solved.  The  gentlemen  arose  to  take  leave.  Madam  Brother, 
ton  hoped  they  would  soon  repeat  their  visit.  The  gentlemen 
declared  that  they  should  feel  so  happy  in  accepting  her  iiivita- 


96  SYBIL     BROTIIERTON. 

lion,  and  they  bowed  themselves  out.  When  the  sound  of 
their  horses'  feet  had  died  away — 

"  Well !  what  do  you  think  of  our  visitors,  grandma  ?"  asked 
Sybil,  gayly. 

"  \\'hy,  my  dear  Sybil,  I  think  Mr.  Meredith  Mills  a  \e- 
m.irkably  handsome,  intellectual,  and  polished  young  gentle- 
man. Of  Mr.  Middleton,  I  had  not  much  opportunity  of 
judging.  He,  as  I  regretted  to  see,  had  his  attention  entirely 
engrossed  by  yourself  during  the  whole  time  of  his  visit.  One 
thing,  however,  did  strike  me.  I  never  saw  a  fairer  illustra- 
tion of  the  fact  that  good  blood  will  show  itself  through  all 
disguises.  Now,  observe — those  two  men — they  were  both 
equally  well  dressed,  perhaps  equally  well  educated,  and  re- 
ceived in  the  same  society;  but  now  observe  the  difference. 
In  Mr.  Meredith  Mills,  you  saw  the  high-bred  air  of  a  gentle- 
man of  family ;  in  Mr.  Middleton  was  equally  visible  the  mau- 
vaise  honte  of  a  low  person.  Mr.  Mills  was  easy,  graceful,  and 
conversable ;  Mr.  Middleton  shy,  awkward,  and  embarrassed. 
I  never  saw  a  fairer  illustration  of  high-bred  aristocracy  and 
of  upstart  vulgarity." 

Sybil  listened  to  this  disquisition,  with  eyes  and  lips  wide 
open  with  astonishment. 

"  Why,  my  dear  grandmother !"  said  she,  "  are  you  not 
under  a  mistake  ?  Which  of  the  gentlemen  did  you  suppose 
to  be  Mr.  Mills?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  the  Hou  Meredith  Mills  was  the  gentle- 
man who  converged  with  me,  while  you  were  so  much  occu- 
pied with  the  other  young  person.7' 

A  smile  flashed  into  the  eyes  and  curled  around  the  lips  of 
Sybil  for  an  instant,  and  vanished,  as  she  said,  seriously — 

"  My  dear  grandmother,  it's  all  owing  to  my  awkward  pre- 
sentation, I  suppose;  but  you  have  made  the  most  amusing 
mistake.  The  tall,  handsome,  graceful,  accomplished,  knd 
lugh-brcd  man,  who  led  you  to  the  sofa,  and  who  charmed  you 
so  much  by  his  intellectual  conversation,  and  whom  you  have 


LORDMAINWARIN0  97 

so  highly  approved  and  praised,  was  Harold  Miduleton,  the 
portrait  painter;  and  the  little  drab-coloured  gentleman,  in 
light  hair  and  a  gray  coat,  was  the  Hon.  Meredith  Mills,  of 
Meredith  Place." 

"  1  hope  you  do  not  jest  with  me,  Miss  Brotherton,"  said 
the  old  lady,  looking  curiously,  between  surprise,  pique,  and 
embarrassment. 

"  Or  rather,  you  hope  I  do  jest,  dear  grandmother,  but  1 
speak  truth ;  however,  your  rule,  I  suppose,  still  holds  good. 
This  is  but  an  exception." 

The  old  lady  seemed  consoled,  and  remarked,  with  a  smile — 

"  There  is  one  thing,  however,  that  pleases  me,  my  dear 
Sybil.  It  is,  that  you  kept  that  young  man,  Middleton,  at  a 
proper  distance,  while  you  showed  fitting  respect  for  Mr.  Mere- 
dith Mills." 

Sybil  smiled,  but  there  was  something  sad,  almost  remorse- 
ful, in  her  smile. 

"  MY  GRANDFATHER,  LORD  MAINWARING." 
A  FEW  weeks  passed  away.  Sybil  met  young  Middleton 
often  in  society.  Indeed,  he  even  came  often  to  the  house, 
where  Mrs.  Brotherton,  in  consideration  of  the  pressing  invi- 
tation extended  to  him  on  his  first  visit,  continued  to  treat 
him  with  civility,  if,  indeed,  the  charming  manners  of  the 
young  man  had  not  put  it  out  of  her  power  to  treat  him  other- 
wise. Then,  his  unembarrassed  manner  to  Miss  Brotherton 
led  off  the  suspicion  that  his  affections  were  interested  in  her. 
The  following  ciseuuistance  opened  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Brother- 
ton  to  the  real  position  of  the  parties. 

Colonel  Hines  had  proposed  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Brother 
ton;  Mrs.  Brothertou  had  made  known  his  wishes  to  her 
granddaughter,  who  received  the  news  of  the  revival  and  press- 
ing of  the  obnoxious  suit  with  so  much  agitation  and  distress, 
that  Mrs.  Brotherton  perceived  that  her  heart  was  no  longer 
free,  and,  by  her  questions,  soon  ascertained  who  had  becouin 


98  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

its  master  TTpon  the  same  evening,  it  happened  that  young 
Mjddleton  called,  and  was  received  by  Mrs.  Brotherton  alone 
and  coldly.  Sybil  was-  weeping  in  her  own  room.  Youug 
Middleton,  perceiving  the  change  in  her  manner,  suspected 
the  truth,  for  he  had  become  well  acquainted  with  the  -Id 
lady's  foible;  he  therefore  soon  arose  to  take  his  leave,  re- 
marking,  as  he  did  so, 

"  This  is  probably  the  last  opportunity  I  shall  have  of  pay- 
ing my  devoirs  to  the  ladies  of  Brotherton  Hall ;  for  my  grand- 
father, the  Earl  of  Mainwaring,  has  written  to  command  my 
immediate  return  to  England." 

"  Sir !  did  I  hear  aright  ?  Your  grandfather,  the  Earl  of 
Mainwaring !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  thrown  off  her  guard. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  young  Middleton,  quietly.  "Permit 
me  to  wish  you  a  good  evenitg.  Pray  present  my  most 
respectful  regards  to  Miss  Brotherton.  Good  evening,  madam." 

"  No,  no ;  do  not  go  yet.  You  must  take  leave  of  Sybil — 
and — pray  do  me  the  favour  to  touch  the  bell.  Perhaps  you 
would  take  some  refreshments." 

The  young  man  complied  with  her  request,  and — 

"  Broom  !"  said  she  to  the  old  servant  who  answered  the 
summons,  "  go  and  give  my  compliments  to  Miss  Brotherton, 
and  ask  her  why  she  keeps  us  waiting  thus,  and  desire  her 
to  come  down ;  and,  Broom,  serve  refreshments.  Mr.  Middle- 
ton  has  ridden  far,  and  would  like  something.  Mr.  Middle- 
ton,  do  be  seated." 

A  sinister  smile  flitted  across  the  young  man's  countenance 
as  he  sat  down.  Greatly  wondering  at  the  summons,  Sybil 
entered  the  room,  followed  by  Broom  with  refreshments.  The 
young  man's  hurry  seemed  now  to  have  evaporated,  as,  event- 
ually, did  the  strong  necessity  for  his  going  to  England.  It 
was  late  when  he  left  the  house.  Sybil  pleaded  fatigue,  and 
retired  soon  tc  bed.  Many  a  fine  aerial  castle  did  Mrs. 
Brotherton  build  that  evening  for  her  pet. 

"  Humph  !  indeed !"  soliloquized  the  old  lady,  as  she  walked 


THE     YOUNG     WIFE.  99 

restlessly  about  her  chamber  floor.  "  Who  would  have  thought 
it  ?  Lord  Mainwaring  !  I  wonder  whether  young  Middleton'i 
father  is  the  eldest  son  of  the  Earl,  the  heir  to  his  titles  aud 
Bvstates.  I  should  like  so  much  to  know.  Dear  ine  !  the  Earl 
of  Mainwaring !  The  Earl  and  Countess  of  Mainwaring ! 
Lord  and  Lady  Mainwaring!  I  will  go  to  England  with  them 
— my  granddaughter,  Lady  Mainwaring !"  said  the  old  lady, 
ringing  all  the  changes  on  the  coveted  title.  "I  must  have 
a  wedding.  I  will  get  Otto,  the  great  Baltimore  confectioner, 
and  Sampson,  the  French  cook,  to  provide  the  breakfast. 
Then  we  must  go  to  Baltimore  ourselves,  and  speak  to  Madame 
Modiste  to  furnish  the  bridal  dress  and  veil,  and  we  must  con- 
sult her  upon  the  trousseau  generally" and  "  Countess  of 

Mainwaring!"  muttered  the  old  lady,  as  she  sank  to  sleep 
that  night.  "  How  well  a  coronet  will  grace  that  angel  brow  !" 

"  God  help  old  madam  I"  said  Katy  to  Broom  that  night  at 
the  kitchen  fire.  "  she  has  been  talking  to  herself  all  the  eve- 
ning." 

Young  Middleton's  return  to  England  was  indefinitely  post- 
poned, and,  before  the  trees  had  put  forth  their  leaves,  or 
the  snow  was  melted  off  the  ground,  Sybil  Brotherton  was 
the  wife  of  Harold  Middleton.  The  young  couple,  much  to 
the  comfort  of  Mrs.  Brotherton,  had  concluded  to  spend  the 
first  year  of  their  married  life  at  Brotherton  Hall.  Mrs. 
Brotherton  had  ascertained  that  the  father  of  her  son-in-law 
was  the  third  son  of  Lord  Mainwaring,  and  that  at  least  three 
persons  stood  between  him  and  the  Earl's  coronet.  But  at 
least  he  was  the  grandson  of  a  peer,  and  that  was  much. 


THE   YOUNG   WIFE. 

How  soon  was  the  sweet  dream  of  Sybil  broken  !  How 
soon  the  beautiful  illusion  of  Sybil  dispelled !  How  soon 
"  the  veiled  prophet"  of  her  idolatry  stood  forth  in  all  his 
hideous  deformity !  A  few  months  after  their  marriage. 
Harold  AJiddleton  began  to  absent  himself  from  his  young 


100  SYBIL     BROTHERTOIf. 

wife  all  day,  and  sometimes  all  night.  The  playful  and  lonr.g 
expostulations  of  Sybil  were  kindiy  taken  at  first,  and  ex- 
planations, which  she  received  with  confiding  affection,  wure 
given  of  his  absence.  But  even  this  disguise  was  at  la&t 
thrown  off. 

About  twelve  months  after  her  marriage,  Sybil  was  sitting 
reading  with  her  grandmother,  in  their  little  parlour.  Karlier 
than  usual,  the  old  lady  couiplained  of  fatigue  and  drowsiness 
and  retired  to  rest.  Sybil  did  not  seek  her  chamber,  but, 
desiring  Broom  to  bring  some  refreshments,  and  sending 
Katy  to  her  chamber  for  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  she 
drew  her  chair  to  the  fire,  to  await  the  coming  of  her  huslmd 
She  could  not  read,  she  laid  her  book  down,  her  very  face 
breathed  joy.  Sybil  had  ascertained  that  she  would  become 
a  mother,  and,  with  the  confiding  love  of  a  young  wife,  she 
wished  to  make  her  husband  a  sharer  of  her  joy.  Long  did 
Sybil  wait,  but  not  impatiently,  for  her  face  was  still  beaming 
with  gentle  happiness,  when  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet,  fol- 
lowed by  an  impatient  rap  at  the  door,  caused  her  to  start 
joyfully  up,  and  go  to  open  it  herself,  exclaiming,  as  she  met 
her  husband — 

"  Oh  !  dear  Harold,  how  glad  I  arn  that  you  have  couie  at 
last !  I  have  been  waiting  so  long  for  you  !" 

Repulsing  her  offered  caress,  he  said,  sternly  and  angrily — 

"  I  have  before  this  intimated  my  desire  that  you  should 
retire  to  rest  at  your  usual  hour,  instead  of  sitting  up  for  me, 
Mrs.  Middletou.  Do  not  give  me  occasion  to  repeat  the  in- 
junction." 

A  woman  of  more  spirit  would  have  resented  this  ;  a  woman 
of  less  sensibility  might  not  have  felt  it.  Poor  Sybil,  from 
tin  very  manner  of  her  education,  as  well  as  from  her  native 
temperament,  was  the  victim  of  a  morbid  sensibility.  This 
was  the  first  occasion  upon  which  Middleton  had  spoken  un- 
kindly to  her,  and  she  felt,  it  deeply.  Pale  and  trembling, 
«he  sui-k  into  her  seat;  Middleton  threw  himself  upon  th« 


THE     YOUNG     WIFE.  101 

Kofa  The  coffee  grew  cold,  the  oysters  became  turbid  in 
ihoir  liquor,  the  candles  burned  low,  the  fire  died  out,  and 
Sybil's  sweet  news  remained  untold.  Silent  tears  werp  steal- 
ing down  her  cheeks.  This  seemed  rather  to  harden  the  heart 
of  her  husband,  who  now  said,  sternly — 

•'This  course  of  conduct  looks  very  like  a  wilful  disregard 
cf  my  wishes,  Mrs.  Middleton.  Perhaps  they  were  not  ex- 
plained with  sufficient  clearness?" 

Sybil  started  as  the  first  angry  tones  or  his  voice  fell  upon 
her  ears,  then  looking  into  his  face  with  an  expression  of 
distressing  inquiry,  and  meeting  nothing  there  but  sullen 
anger,  she  arose  from  her  seat,  and,  taking  her  night-lamp, 
was  about  to  leave  the  room.  Seeming  to  take  a  second  thought 
when  she  reached  the  door,  she  turned  back,  and,  setting  down 
her  lamp,  approached  her  husband,  and  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  pressing  her  lips  upon  his  brow,  she 
murmured — 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  dear  Harold.  I  will  not  stav 
up  for  you  another  time,  if  you  will  love  me  now." 

This  caress  was  received  in  sullen  silence,  and  not  returned. 
The  gentle  words  of  Sybil  remained  unnoticed.  Unclasping 
her  arms,  after  a  few  moments,  she  withdrew  to  her  chamber, 
and  sought  her  pillow,  where,  like  a  child  as  she  was,  she  soon 
wept  herself  to  sleep. 

"  A  poor,  pale,  whining  creature,"  muttered  Middleton, 
looking  after  his  wife  as  she  left  the  room.  "  If  I  had  know, 
that  this  old  place  was  in  chancery,  I  would  have  seen  her  in 
Jericho  before  I  would  have  married  her.  Strange !  that  i 
never  happened  to  hear  it  until  to-night.  And  you,  Inez ! 
my  bright,  my  beautiful,  my  dark-browed  girl  of  Italy ! 
Was  it  for  this,  1'cast  you  away?  No  matter;  fetters  not 
riveted  with  gold  fall  easily  from  my  wrists,  bright  Inez ! 
And  if  this  property  should  slip  from  its  present  posses? 
ws" 


102  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

Middleton  fell  into  a  deep  revery,  so  that  it  was  near  luern 
ing  when  he  retired  to  his  chamber. 

A  few  months  passed,  and  the  case  in  chancery  was  decided 
against  the  Brothertons,  and  a  suit  entered  to  eject  them  from 
the  premises.  From  this  time,  the  mask  of  hypocrisy  assumed 
by  Middleton,  and  which  had  occasionally  slipped  aside,  was 
now  laid  by  for  ever.  With  what  funds  he  could  wrest  from 
his  gentle  wife,  or,  through  her,  from  Mrs.  Brotherton,  he 

would  frequent  L ,  the  county  seat,  and  spend  whole  days 

and  nights  in  dissipation.  Sybil  grew  pale  and  melancholy, 
and,  having  lost  all  esteem  and  respect  for  her  husband,  took 
no  further  comfort  in  her  love;  and,  indeed,  with  her  delicate 
health  and  timid  temper,  she  generally  felt  rather  relieved, 
when,  after  she  had  given  him  all  the  money  she  could  raise, 
he  would  take  himself  off  for  a  week,  for  then  she  felt  secure, 
Ht  least,  from  personal  violence  and  danger  to  herself  and  her 
unborn  babe;  for,  alas !  Sybil  Middleton,  the  delicate,  the  sensi- 
tive, and  the  refined,  had  felt  the  weight  of  her  husband's 
hand  in  anger,  had  trembled  for  her  life  in  his  presence.  But 
these  scenes  of  violence  would  generally  occur  after  Middleton 
had  been  drinking  freely.  And  Sybil  had  another  sorrow; 
she  perceived,  with  grief  and  dismay,  that  her  beloved  grand- 
mother was  falling  into  premature  dotage.  The  trials  of  the 
old  lady's  age  had  been  too  great  for  her  to  bear.  The  loss 
of  the  Brotherton  estate,  the  unworthiness  of  her  son-in-law, 
the  misery  of  her  darling  granddaughter,  and  the  prospective 
ejectment  from  the  home  of  her  youth,  all  pressed  upon  the 
old  lady's  mind,  and  at  length  broke  it  down. 


THE   YOUNG   MOTHER. 

"  STAY  with  me  to-night,  dear  Harold ;  I  am  ill,  and  I  am 
frightened.  Stay  with  me  to-night,"  pleaded  Sybil,  timidly 
taking  the  hand  of  her  husband  as  he  was  about  to  loa\e  the 
house. 


THE     YOUNG     MOTHER.  103 

"I  am  not  a  physician,  Mrs.  Middleton,"  replied  ho,  coldly. 

"  Yet  you  are  more  to  me — the  only  one  who  can  givr  me 
comfort  and  strength  in  my  coming  trial.  I  am  weak  and 
fearful;  I  know  I  am  a  fool,  yet  bear  with  me  a  while,  und 
— stay  with  me  to-night." 

"  You  have  your  grandmother  with  you." 

"  Alas  !  my  poor  grandmother !  she  herself  needs  care  and 
attention  She  is  incapable  of  giving  me  comfort.  Oh  !  do 
not  leave  me !"  exclaimed  she  suddenly,  catching  his  hand,  as 
he  was  about  to  go.  "  Stay  with  me  to-night." 

"  You  are  importunate,  Mrs.  Middleton,"  said  he,  releasing 
himself,  "  and  I  regret  to  say  that  I  cannot  comply  with  your 
request.  Good-evening."  And  he  left  the  room. 

Sybil  turned  aside  to  weep,  but  wiped  her  tears  hastily  away, 
as  she  perceived  her  poor  grandmother  totter  into  the  room. 

"  Weeping  again,  Sybil,  my  poor  child  ?"  said  the  old  lady, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  and  holding  out  her  arms  to  her  grand- 
daughter. "  Come  to  my  bosom,  my  dear  child.  What  is 
your  grief,  Sybil?" 

"  Nothing,  my  dear  grandmother,  only  I  am  not  very  well," 
said  Mrs.  Middleton,  pleased,  yet  wondering  at  the  temporary 
revival  of  the  old  lady's  intellect. 

"  No,  my  poor  child  j  you  are  far  from  well.  I  see  that. 
You  must  go  to  bed,  Sybil,  and  I  will  send  for  a  physician. 
Katy  !  tell  Broom  to  saddle  a  horse,  and  ride  over  to  Doctor 
Hall's,  and  ask  him  to  come  over  directly ;  that  Mrs.  Middle- 
ton  is  ill ;  and,  Katy,  do  you  carry  an  armful  of  wood  up  into 
your  young  lady's  chamber.  Lean  on  me,  my  dear  Sybil,  and 
come  up  stairs." 

Lean  on  her !  Poor  old  trembler !  There  was  something 
inexpressibly  touching  in  her  protection  of  Sybil,  while  she 
herself  so  much  needed  support. 

Mrs.  Middleton  gained  her  room,  and  was  assisted  to  bed 
Mrs.  Brotherton  took  her  seat  in  a  large  arm-chair  by  her  side. 
Sybil  repressed  her  complaints,  that  she  might  not  give  pain 


104  SYBIL     BBOTIIERTON. 

lo  the  tender-hearted  old  lady.  The  physician  lived  .en  miles 
c%7f ;  the  night  was  far  advanced,  and  he  had  not  yet  arrived 
feybil  lay  perfectly  quiet  and  silent,  except  when  she  would 
entreat  her  grandmother  to  go  to  rest,  and  leave  old  Kuty  to 
watch. 

"  No,  no,  darling;  no,  no,  my  poor  child,"  would  be  the  old 
lady's  answer. 

Sybil  at  last  said — 

"  Dear  grandmother,  I  would  like  to  go  to  sleep,  but  T  can- 
not sleep  while  I  see  you  there.  Will  you  not  retire  to  bed  ?" 

"  Are  you  better,  then,  my  love  ?  I  am  so  glad  !  Well, 
as  soon  as  I  see  you  asleep,  I  will  go  !" 

"  Good-night,  then,  dear  grandmother  1" 

"  God  bless  you,  darling  !" 

Sybil  closed  her  eyes  and  affected  to  sleep.  After  a  few 
moments,  the  old  lady  arose  and  looked  over  her,  but  she 
could  not  see  by  the  dim  light  of  the  taper  the  corrugated  brow 
and  the  clenched  hands  of  the  sufferer. 

"She  is  asleep!"  murmured  the  old  lady.  "Bless  her, 
poor  thing,  I  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  be  sick."  And  she 
glided  from  the  room,  telling  Katy  that  she  would  dispense 
with  her  services  for  that  night,  and  charging  her  to  sleep  by 
the  bedside  of  her  young  lady,  in  case  she  should  need  any 
thing. 

In  an  hour  after,  Sybil  Middleton  pressed  her  first-born 
child  to  her  bosom. 

«  Thank  God  for  my  beautiful  boy  !  Thank  God  for  my 
spared  life !"  fervently  exclaimed  the  exhausted  mother,  a& 
she  received  the  babe  in  her  arms. 

"  Now,  my  dear  young  lady,  as  you  are  comfortable,  hadn't 
I  better  wake  madam  ?" 

"No,  Katy;  let  uer  sleep,  and  I  must  rest  now.  How 
proud  Harold  will  be  of  his  son  !  How  happy  poor  grand- 
mother will  feel  that  my  trial  is  safely  over  I"  »vas  the  last 
thought  of  Sybil,  as  she  sank  to  rest. 


THE     YOUNG     MOTHER.  105 

"Oli!  my  dear  young  lady!  my  dear  young  ladv!"  ex- 
ikimed  old  Katy,  bursting  into  the  chamber  of  Mrs.  Middle 
ton  at  early  dawn. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Katy  ?"  inquired  Sybil,  in 
affright. 

"  Your  poor  grandmother !  your  good  old  grandmother  !" 

"Katy!  what  is  the  matter?  What  of  my  dear  grand- 
tiother  ?' 

"  Dead  in  her  bed  !  dead  in  her  bed  !'" 

With  a  smothered  shriek,  Sybil  fell  back  on  her  pillow. 

Old  Broom,  who,  unable  to  find  the  Doctor,  had  returned 
late  at  night,  was  despatched  to  Colonel  Hincs's.  The  Colone 
and  his  sister  quickly  obeyed  the  summons,  and  hastened  It 
Brotherton  Hall.  The  family  physician  also  arrived  early  in. 
the  morning,  and  a  messenger  was  despatched  *o  Mr.  Middle- 
ton,  at  L .  In  the  mean  time,  Colonel  Hiues  and  hig 

sister  Rachel  took  the  direction  of  affairs;  and  truly  the  kind 
offices  of  these  good  Samaritans  were  needed,  for  Mrs.  Brother- 
ton  had  expired  during  the  night  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  Mrs. 
Middletou  was  lying  extremely  iil  and  delirious.  Mr.  Middle- 
ton  returned  late  in  the  evening.  On  the  fourth  day  from  her 
decease,  the  funeral  of  Mrs.  Brotherton  took  place.  It  was 
attended  by  all  the  gentry  of  the  neighbourhood.  The  wild 
delirium  of  Mrs.  Middleton  had  been  subdued,  but  she  lay  in 
a  stupor,  insensible  to  all  that  was  passing  around  her.  Miss 
Rachel  Hiues  kindly  volunteered  to  reuiaiu  at  Brotherton  Hall 
to  nurse  the  invalid. 

At  length  "Sybil  was  raised  from  her  bed  of  illness,  and,  iu 
d  fortnight  from  the  day  on  which  she  first  sat  up,  she  left  her 
room.  Miss  Rachel  Hiues  had  returned  home  It  was  eve- 
ning, and  Sybil  said  to  herself — 

"  I  will  surprise  Harold,  and  please  him,  by  joining  him  at 
tea." 

And  wrapping  her  shawl  around  her,  she  descended  to  the 
parlour.  Old  Broom  was  just  setting  tea  upon  the  table  ai 


Ob  SYBIL     BEOTHERTON. 

ehe  fnvrrfd.  In  answer  to  her  inquiry,  the  old  man  told  hei 
that  ^Jr.  JUiddteton  was  talking  with  a  strange  man  iu  the 
entry  Desiring  Katy  to  go  up  and  remain  with  her  infant, 
and  telling  Broom  to  be  in  waiting  upon  the  table,  Sybil  took 
her  seat.  Middieton  entered,  and,  as  he  sat  down  in  his  place, 
icmarked — 

"  I  am  glad  to  dee  you  out  of  your  chamber,  Sybil,  for  we 
*hall  be  obliged  t-i  get  out  of  the  house  very  soon." 

"  As  you  please,  dear  Harold.  I  am  ready  to  accompany 
you,  when  and  wbere  you  please." 

Harold  Middletjn  smiled  darkly. 

"  But  it  is  not  as  I  please,  Mrs.  Middieton.  Let  me  tell 
you,  it  is  far  more  easy  to  get  rid  of  one  handsome  establish- 
ment than  to  find  another." 

Not  comprehending  the  cause  of  his  ill-humour,  but  seeing 
from  his  inflamed  face  that  he  had  been  drinking,  Sybil  an- 
swered gently  .and  soothingly 

"  Dearest  Harold,  believe  me,  I  an,  willing  to  do  just  aa 
you  see  fit.  I  had  as  lieve  remain  here  as  go  elsewhere,  if  you 
prefer  it." 

"  You  are  dull,  Mrs.  Middieton ;  you  do  not  seem  to  com- 
prehend that  a  writ  of  ejectment  has  been  served  upon  us,  and 
that  we  must  go." 

"  Oh !  it  is  sad,  indeed,  to  leave  our  home  upon  compulsion. 
But,  dearest  Harold,  do  not  call  me  Mrs.  Middieton,  and  speak 
so  coldly  to  me.  You  know  I  have  no  one  to  love  me  now 
but  you." 

"  You  are  irritable,  and  not  very  agreeable,  this  evening, 
Mrs.  Middieton.  I  think  you  have  left  your  chamber  too  soon; 
I  advise1  you  to  return  to  it." 

Sybil  left  the  room. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  this  conversation,  Middieton 
left  home  for  Baltimore,  and  was  absent  about  a  week.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  returned,  and,  entering  the  parlour, 
where  his  wife  sat  at  work,  informed  her  that  he  had  received 


THE     YOUNG     MOTHER,  107 

a  letter  from  his  father  requiring  his  immediate  presence  in 
London  to  attend  a  lawsuit;  and  that  he  should  go  in  the 
next  packet,  which  would  sail  in  two  weeks. 

"  Very  well,  dear  Harold,  we  must  make  some  provision  for 
the  two  poor  old  people  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  shall  be  so  glad 
to  go.  I  like  the  arrangement  very  much.  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  cross  the  ocean,  and  so  happy,  so  very  happy,  to  know  your 
father  and  mother.  I  shall  find  parents  again  in  them;  ami 
they  will  be  so  pleased,  will  they  not,  to  see  our  babe,  their 
grandchild?  Oh!  yes;  I  shall  be  quite  ready  in  a  week." 

"  Well !  have  you  done,  Sybil  ?" 

Sybil  raised  her  large,  tender  eyes  to  his  countenance  with 
an  inquiring  glance,  and  remained  silent. 

"  I  never  contemplated  taking  you  to  England,  Sybil ;  at 
least  when  I  go.  I  do  not  indeed  know  how  you  would  be 
received  by  my  family.  It  will  take,  I  fear,  some  considerabU 
diplomacy  to  reconcile  my  father  to  this  somewhat  inconsi- 
derate marriage  of  mine." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  face  of  Sybil,  and  the  tears  to  her 
eyes ;  to  conceal  which,  she  stooped  and  raised  her  babe  from 
the  cradle. 

"  But  this  is  my  design.  I  will  attend  promptly  my  father's 
summons ;  meet  him  in  London,  and,  after  the  hurry  of  busi- 
ness is  over,  I  will  endeavour  to  reconcile  him  to  our  marriage, 
then  send  or  come  for  you  and  the  child." 

Mrs.  Middleton  was  reassured  by  his  words,  especially  as 
his  manner  was  kinder  than  usual,  and  he  had  called  her 
"  Sybil"  through  the  conversation.  She  inquired — 

"  And  how  long  will  it  be,  dear  Harold,  before  you  send  ?" 

"  Oh  !  in  a  few  months  from  this — in  the  fall,  probably ; 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  take  a  house  for  you  in  Balti- 
more for  the  summer." 

"  It  seems  a  long  time  until  the  fall ;  but  then  I  suppo&e  [ 
am  weak  to  feel  so,"  said  Sybil,  repressing  a  sigh. 

The  next  few  days  were  employed  in  selling  ofi  the  farni* 


108  SYBIL     BROTHER-TON. 

turc  and  plate  at  Brotherton  Hall.  A  few  family  portraits 
and  some  pieces  of  old-fashioned  furniture  were  reserved  for  the 
use  of  Mrs.  Middlcton  during  the  summer. 

Two  weeks  from  this  time,  Sybil  found  herself  the  occupant 
of  a  small  cottage  on  the  suburbs  of  Baltimore.  Katy  was 
retained  in  her  service,  upon  reduced  wages;  and  old  Broom, 
who  had  "saved  a  penny,"  went  to  live  with  some  of  his  re- 
lations. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Middleton's  departure.  His  trunks 
were  all  on  board,  and  the  packet  was  to  sail  with  the  first 
tide. 

At  early  dawn,  Middleton  and  Sybil  stood  at  the  cottage 
gate. 

"  And  will  you  indeed  send  for  me  in  the  fall,  dear  Harold?' 
said  Sybil,  sadly. 

"  Why,  certainly,  Sybil ;  why  do  you  doubt  rue  ?"  said  Mid- 
dleton, smilingly. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  you,  but  I  love,  to  hear  you  promise  again 
and  again." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  gone  j  farewell,  Sybil."     ' 

"  Good-bye  !  good-bye  ! — Oh  !  come  back ;  let  me  take  a 
long,  long  look  into  yoar  eyes — a  look  that  will  last  me  till 
we  meet" 

"Well!  will  that  do,  Sybil?  There— there— I  must  go. 
Be  cheerful;  farewell.  I  will  send  for  you  soon." 

And  they  parted ;  he  with  a  lie  on  his  lips,  rejoicing  in  his 
release ;  she  to  her  lonely  hearth,  profoundly  grateful  for  his 
seeming  kindness,  and  building  many  bright  hopes  upon  his 
faithless  promises. 


KATY'S  MISHAPS  IN  THE  CITY. 

THE  leaves  were  falling,  and  the  cold  north-west  wind  was 
blowing  them  in  drifts  about  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Middleton. 
Old  Katy  was  roairiag  about  the  garden,  gathering  sticks  to 


KATY'8     MISHAPS     IN     THE     CITY.  109 

!nake  a  fire  ;  in  the  course  of  her  gleaning,  she  passed  into  the 
front  yard.  Seeing  the  figure  of  an  old  man  leaning  on  a  stick 
at  the  gate,  she  dropped  her  bundle  and  hastened  forward,  joy- 
fully exclaiming  —  • 

"  Lor'  a'  mercy  upon  me,  Broom  !  Is  this  you  ?  Is  this 
you  ?  Bless  your  ole  soul,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  once  again 
in  this  worl'  !  Come  in,  come  in  ;  how  have  you  been  this  long 


"  Thanky,  Katy,  thanky;  I'm  so-so,  'cept  the  rheumatics, 
uid  the  phthisic,  and  the  asthma  and  lumbago,  and  the  liver 
complaint,  and  the  consumption,  except  that  I  enjoys  prettj 
good  health  in  general." 

"  'Deed  !  I'm  glad  to  hear  you're  so  hearty.  It's  more  than 
I  am  ;  I'm  trouble  with  a  stiff  neck." 

"  Yes  !  you  were  always  stiff-necked,  Katy." 

Now,  Broom,  that  was  a  libel  on  Katy  ! 

"  Well,  Katy,  how  is  the  young  madam  and  the  little  child, 
and  when  is  she  going  to  foreign  parts?" 

"  Ah  !  poor  dear  child  !  I  think  she's  in  a  'sumption, 
Broom.  She  used  to  be  purty  as  a  picter,  Broom  j  now  she's 
all  pale  and  thin,  and  her  eyes  are  hollow.  She's  never  hearn 
a  word  from  that  vilyun  (God  forgive  me)  that  she  married. 
She's  gone  to  the  pos'  office  now,  poor  dear  heart,  to  see  if 
there's  a  letter  for  her.  She  seen  in  a  newspaper  how  the  snip 
that  he,  wtTrt  out  in  has  corned  back,  and  so  she's  gone.  But 
come  in,  Broom,  out  o'  the  cold  ;  you  shall  see  the  child,  poor 
little  cretur,  by  the  kitchen  fire  —  no  !  by  the  kitchen  fire-pla;-e 
—  no  fire  there  !  Dunno  when  there  will  be." 

"  Why,  you  don't  go  to  make  out  how  the  young  madam 
wants  for  anything,  do  ye  ?" 

"  Don't  want  for  nothing,  don't  she?  I  tell  you,  Broom, 
that  vilyun  (mercy  on  me)  never  left  her  a  single  dollar  —  made 
out  he'd  want  all  the  money  to  carry  him  to  foreign  parts.  / 
know,  'cause,  you  sec,  she  wanted  tea  and  sugar  the  day  aftei 
tic  went  a'vay;  aud  so  she  seat  her  silver  .spupus  to  be  sulJ~ 


110  SYBIL     BBOTHEBTON. 

Sent  'em  by  me;  and  by  the  same  token,  the  silversmiff  where 
I  took  them  took  the  spoons  away  from  me,  and  sent  for  a 
cons'able,  and  had  me  'rested  on  'spicion  of  stealing  them ; 
yes  I  and  'rested  me  there  all  day,  till  the  young  lady  could  be 
gent  for.  Lor',  Broom,  how  my  feelings  were  hurted  that  day  I 
that  ever  Catherine  Ann  Gallagher  should  be  'rested  for 
istealin'  silver  spoons  !  You  don't  know  how  I  was  hurt  1" 

"  I  can  'magine,  Katy ;  I  can  'magine.  You  know,  though, 
you  used  to  hear  the  ole  madam  say,  as  none  of  the  people  in 
cities  ever  come  ober  with  Lord  Baltimore,  so  how  can  you 
'spect  better  from  them  ?" 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  Broom — but  come  in  out 
of  the  wind— there's  the  baby  !  The  very  image  of  the  old 
madam,  aint  he  ?  There  I  don't  wake  him  ;  sit  down.  I  was 
a-going  to  tell  you,  that  after  that,  the  young  madam  always 
wrote  a  line  when  she  sent  me  to  sell  anything;  and  she  sold 
almost  all  the  silver  she  had,  to  buy  things  and  pay  rent ;  for 
only  think,  Broom,  people  here  have  to  pay  for  living  in 
houses !" 

"  Pshaw !  I  could  have  told  you  that  long  ago." 

"  I  didn't  know  it.  Well,  there's  nothing  left  to  sell,  now, 
but  the  blade  of  the  butter  knife  and  her  thimble — that's  silver, 
I  mean ;  and  what  we  are  to  do,  now  the  winter's  setting  in, 
the  Lord  knows.  We  been  living  on  black  tea  and  rye  bread 
all  this  summer.  The  poor  child  wanted  me  to  go  hire 
out  where  I  could  get  wages  and  better  living ;  but  no,  I  says  ; 
if  I've  got  a  black  skin,  I've  got  a  white  soul;  and  I  ain't  a- 
going  to  'sert  her  in  her  'fliction." 

"  No,  no  more  I  wouldn't,  Katy.  Dear,  dear,  dear,"  sighed 
the  old  man ;  "  this  is  very  'stressing,  very  !  But  couldn't 
the  young  lady  teach  the  pianner,  or  paiut  picters,  or  diskiver 
some  rich  relations,  like  the  'stressed  ladies  in  the  story  books, 
•he  used  to  read  to  us  about  ?" 

"  Well,  I  often  thinks  o'  that  myself;  and  I  thinks,  what's 
the  good  o'  larn'V  unless  it  helps  people  to  get  along  jn  the 


KATY'S    MISHAPS    IN    THE    CITY.        Ill 

World.  But,  poor  thing  !  her  mind  is  'sturbed  enough.  Some- 
times she  does  walk  about  a  whole  day,  looking  for  needle* 
work ;  but  she  is  a  stranger,  and  gets  no  luck,  and  she  comes 
home,  and  mopes,  and  mopes.  I  'vises  hei  to  smoke  a  pipe  \ 
but  she  won't  take  'vice.  I  tells  her,  if  it  hadn't  a  been  for 
smoking  a  pipe,  I  should  have  gone  ravin'  'stracted  mad,  when 
Colonel  Ilines  (Heaven  forgive  him)  sold  my  poor  dear  gal  to 
Georgy.  My  poor  gal !  my  poor  gal !  your  poor  old  mother 
will  never  see  you  again  in  this  world.  My  poor  dear  gal !  all 
the  child  I  had  in  the  world !"  Here  the  poor  old  soul  lost 
recollection  of  everything  but  her  own  sorrow,  and  sobbed 
hysterically. 

"  Don't  cry,  Katy  !  don't  cry  !  that's  a  good  'oman  !" 

"  Hush,  Broom,  hush  !  you  never  had  no  child  sold  away 
irom  you." 

"  No,  Katy,  because  my  wife  was  sold  away  from  me  the 
first  year  we  were  married,  and  I  never  had  the  heart  to  marry 
again." 

"  My  poor  gal !  my  poor  child  !" 

"  Come,  Katy,  don't  take  on  so  j  don't,  that's  a  dove  !" 

When  the  old  creature  had  exhausted  herself  with  weeping, 
dhe  wiped  her  eyes.  Then  Broom  said  to  her — 

"  You  never  told  me,  Katy,  how  it  was  that  you  were  free 
and  your  child  a  slave." 

"  Why,  you  see,  Broom,  I  was  left  to  Colonel  Hines  by  his 
uncle,  but  I  was  left  to  be  free  at  twenty-five ;  and  I  had  my 
little  gal  before  I  had  served  my  time  out,  and  so  she  was  a 
slave.  I  had  been  living  with  Mrs  Brotherton  ever  since  I 
was  ten  years  old,  and  I  was  there  when  my  poor  gal  was  sold. 
She  tried  to  prevent  it,  but  couldn't.  You  were  gone  with 
Colonel  Brotherton  to  the  wars  then.  Don't  ask  me  any  more, 
please,  Broom ;"  and  the  old  creature  fell  to  weeping  again. 
At  last,  wiping  her  eyes,  she  said —  • 

"  Well,  well !  well,  well !  may  be  it  will  all  come  right  in 
another  woiM.  Give  me  that  bundle  of  chips,  Broom;  I 


H'2  SYBIL     BBOTHEBTOM. 

must  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  Mrs.  Middleton,  against  she 
comes.  I  wish  I  had  a  little  wood,  to  make  a  fire  in  her 
room." 

"  Now,  you  stop,  old  'oman.  How  long  before  she'll  be 
back  ?" 

"  \n  hour  or  so." 

"  Well !"  said  the  old  man,  brightening  up,  "  I'll  just  tell 
you  what  I  goin'  to  do.  I  goin'  after  a  load  of  wood  and  a 
basket  of  good  things ;  and  I'll  just  have  'em  brought  home, 
and  don't  you  let  on  who  sent  them,  'cause  the  young  lady 
might  feel  bad  at  'ceiving  a  favour  from  the  likes  o'  me,  'cause 
that's  a  little  worser  than  anything  we  ever  heard  about  in  the 
books  at  night." 

The  old  man  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  an  buar  a  blazing 
fire  was  kindled  in  Sybil's  room,  and  the  tea-table  spread  with 
nice  white  bread  and  fresh  butter,  while  a  pot  of  fragrant  hysoa 
was  drawing  on  the  hearth.  The  babe  was  awake,  sitting  on 
the  carpet,  blowing  a  whistle  with  great  glee.  At  last  Sybil 
entered,  pale,  languid,  and  weary,  and,  dropping  into  a  chair, 
held  out  her  arms  to  the  babe,  who  crawled  fast  upon  his  hands 
and  knees  to  reach  her  lap. 

"  Ah  !  she's  got  no  letter,"  thought  old  Katy,  as  she  came 
in  to  set  the  tea  on  the  table. 

"  The  silvcrsmiff  has  been  here,  ma'am  (Heaven  forgive  mo 
for  lying,"  muttered  she  to  herself). 

"  The  silversmith,  Katy  !" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  j  and  he  fotch  two  dollars,  as  he  said  was  due 
on  the  spoons;  and  so  I  took  the  money,  ma'am,  and  bought 
some  wood  and  some  other  things;  (Heaven  look  over  fib- 
ling.") 

'•  Very  well,  Katy,  that  was  a  Godsend,  indeed ;  but  you 
loft  the  babe  to  do  this." 

"  NTo,  ma'am ;  old  Uncle  Broom  'rived  this  morning,  and  1 
got  hi:n  to  go." 

.  ''Poor  old  man!  IJas  he  travelled  all  the  way  up  here? 
Send  him  iu  to  see  uie,  Katy." 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   NEWS.  113 

"Scuse  me,  Mrs.  Middleton;  but  did  you  ^t  a  letter, 
tua'am  ?" 

"  No,  Katy ;  but  to-morrow  I  will  go  and  see  the  captain 
of  the  vessel;  perhaps  he  has  a  letter  or  a  message  for  me." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NEWS. 

THE  next  morning,  after  an  early  breakfast,  Sybil  put  her 
babe  to  sleep,  and  went  her  way  in  search  of  the  captain  of 
the  packet  in  which  her  husband  had  left  America.  In  going 
towards  the  vessel,  she  had  to  pass  through  crowds  of  coarse 
women  and  rough  men,  whose  ribaldry  caused  her  nerves  to 
tremble  and  her  cheek  to  burn  with  shame.  At  length,  finding 
it  difficult  to  reach  the  vessel,  which  was  lying  off  the  shore, 
she  inquired  where  the  captain  was  likely  to  be  found,  and 
was  directed  to  his  lodgings  in  the  city.  She  hurried  thither, 
was  so  lucky  as  to  find  him  at  home,  and  was  shown  into  his 
presence.  He  was  a  fat,  red-faced,  self-satisfied  looking  man, 
tflio  arose  to  receive  her  with  rather  an  insolent  leer. 

"  You  are  Captain  Blackston,  I  presume  ?" 

"  At  your  service,  miss." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Middleton." 

"  Ah  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam." 

"  My  husband,  Mr.  Harold  P.  Middleton,  went  to  Liver- 
pool  in  your  ship  about  six  months  since.  I  have  come  .te 
inquire  whether  you  have  any  letter  or  message  from  him  for 
me,  and  whether  he  was  in  good  health  when  he  landed." 

"  Whew  !"  whistled  the  captain. 

"  Will  you  please  to  tell  me,  sir  ?" 

"  Why,  madam,  here  seems  to  be  a  great  mystery.  Mr. 
Middleton,  certainly,  was  my  passenger  to  Liverpool ;  but  ho 
took  with  him  a  lady  whom  he  called  Mrs.  Middleton,  and 
whom  I  supposed  to  be  his  wife.  Heavens  !  ma'am,  don't  faint 
here  in  my  room  I"  exclaimed  the  captain,  seizing  the  bell  rope, 
and  ringing  an  alarm. 


114  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

"  William  !"  cried  he,  energetically,  to  the  man  that  an- 
ewered  the  bell,  "  call  a  hackney  coach  for  this  lady." 

Sybil  mastered  her  emotion  by  a  great  effort,  and  entered 
the  coach  that  had  been  called  for  her,  for  indeed  her  tn.nibling 
limbs  refused  to  convey  her  home.  It  took  Sybil's  last  dollar, 
the  produce  of  the  sale  of  the  butter-krife,  to  pay  her  fare. 
For  many  days,  Sybil  remained  almost  stupefied  with  grief, 
sometimes  wandering  restlessly  about,  sometimes  sitting  for 
hours  in  one  mournful  position,  sometimes  catching  up  her 
infant,  and  weeping  passionately  over  it.  Poor  old  Katy  was 
distressed  almost  to  death,  but  could  not  guess  the  cause  of 
her  acute  sorrow.  A  few  weeks  from  this  time  there  was  an 
arrival  from  Liverpool,  and  a  few  days  after,  Sybil  saw  a  let- 
ter advertised  for  her  in  the  paper.  Too  weak  to  go  herself, 
she  hurried  old  Katy  off  to  the  office.  Poor  old  Katy  was 
always  sure  to  fall  into  adventures,  when  she  was  sent  into 
the  city.  When  she  arrived  at  the  post  office,  and  was  asked 
by  the  clerk  what  she  wanted,  she  answered — 

"  That  letter,  if  you  please,  sir." 

«  What  letter,  aunty  ?" 

"  Why,  the  letter  from  foreign  parts,  if  you  please." 

"Yes;  but  whose  letter ?" 

"  Why,  hizzen,  sir,  hizzen." 

"  What  name,  old  woman  ?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Middleton,  the  gentleman  as  went  to  foreign 
parts." 

The  clerk  looked  over  his  list,  and  answered — 

"  There  is  nothing  here  for  Mr.  Middleton." 

"  The  letter  ain't  for  Mr.  Middleton,  sir." 

"  For  whom  then,  old  woman  ?"  said  the  clerk,  growing  im- 
patient. 

"  Miss  Sybil  that  was,  sir — Miss  Sybil  Brotherton,  of  Bro- 
therton  Hall,  come  over  with  Lord  Baltimore,  sir,"  said  Kaiy, 
surtsying  at  every  clause. 

"  There  is  no  letter  here  for  Miss  Brotherton." 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    NEWS.  115 

t: She's  not  Miss  Brothcrton  now;  she's  Mis.  Middlcton." 

"  Why,  what  a  stupid  old  beast  is  this  !  Here,  here  is  your 
letter." 

"  Thanky,  sir !  very  kind  of  you,  indeed,  sir;  thanky, 
kindly.  I  wouldn't  take  a  golden  guinea  for  this  letter." 

It  was  raining  hard  when  Katy  left  the  office,  and  she  looked 
around  in  despair — for  Katy  had  no  umbrella.  A  hackney 
coach  was  standing  near,  and  Katy  looked  longingly  at  it 
Observing  this,  the  driver  said,  jeeringly — 

"  A  hack,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  kindly ;  yes,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Finding  a  customer,  the  driver  changed  his  tone,  and  let 
down  his  steps,  and  handed  the  old  woman  in  with  respectful 
alacrity,  put  them  up  again,  jumped  into  his  seat,  and  drove 
off. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  old  Katy,  as  she  sat  back  in  the  carriage. 
"  This  is  very  nice  and  comfortable — so  much  better  than 
sploshing  through  the  mud  and  getting  wet  to  the  skin.  I 
love  the  motion  of  a  carriage,  too — it  tintillates  one's  feelings 
so  pleasantly.  What  a  very  polke  young  man,  to  offer  ma  a 
ride — so  different  from  other  people.  Ain't  he  got  manners  ? 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  his  family  didn't  come  over  with  Lord 
Baltimore.  What  nice  soft  cushions  !" 

The  end  of  this  soliloquy  brought  Katy  to  Mrs.  Middlcton's 
door.  The  "  very  polite  young  man"  jumped  from  his  seat, 
and,  letting  down  the  steps,  handed  Katy  out. 

"  I  ain  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed,  sir,  for  your  kind 
ness,  sir.  I'll  do  you  a  favour  whenever  I  have  a  chance." 

"Very  well;  you're  quite  welcome;  your  money  is  just  as 
good  as  anybody's  else.  It's  a  dollar." 

"Sir?" 

« It's  a  dollar." 

"What's  a  dollar?" 

"  It's  a  dollar  >-ou  owe  me  for  bringing  you  home  in  mj 
hack." 


T16  SYBIL     BROTHERTOW 

"Why,  you  invited  me  to  ride  in  your  hack,  1  never  asked 
jou;  it  was  your  own  offer,  and  I  thank  you  kindly.  But 
you're  not  going  to  charge  me,  now,  I  hopes." 

"  Come,  that's  rich." 

"Good -morning;  I  thank  you  kindly;  I  must  go  in  now." 

"  Look  here,  old  woman  ;  none  of  your  nonsense ;  hand  me 
that  dollar." 

"  I  shan't  do  no  such  a  thing  !  I  shan't  do  no  such  a  thing  ! 
You  'vited  me  to  take  a  ride,  and  I  rid;  and  now  I  know  it 
was  all  to  cheat  me  out  of  a  dollar." 

"  See  here,  you  old  devil,  if  you  don't  pay  me  that  dollar, 
I'll  put  you  iu  the  hands  of  a  constable  for  swindling." 

"  Now,  the  mercy  upon  me  ;  where  am  I  to  get  a  dollar 
from?" 

Words  now  grew  so  high  between  the  belligerent  parties, 
that  the  noise  drew  Mrs.  Middleton  to  the  door;  and  great 
was  her  perplexity  when  she  understood  the  cause  of  dispute 
— for  poor  Sybil  was  penniless.  Telling  Katy  that  she  was 
in  the  wrong,  and  explaining  to  the  hackman  Katy's  mistake, 
and  promising  to  pay  him  the  next  day,  Sybil  separated  the 
combatants,  and,  receiving  her  letter,  she  retired  to  read  it. 
She  opened  it  eagerly.  There  was  no  enclosure ;  and  merely 
remarking  that  little  Hubert  would  go  without  his  flannel  some 
time  longer,  she  began  to  read.  Her  cheek  grew  pale  and 
paler  as  she  read,  the  letter  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  she 
sat  as  one  stricken  with  epilepsy.  Presently,  the  blood  rushed 
back  in  torrents  to  her  face,  and,  clasping  her  hands  to  her 
throbbing  temples,  she  started  up  and  paced  the  floor  with 
irregular  steps,  exclaiming — 

"  Oh  !  the  fiend !  the  fiend  ! — yet  not  the  fiend,  either,  for 
there  is  something  large  about  the  devil,  after  all — the  reptile  ! 
the  reptile,  rather !  Coldly  to  tell  me  he  does  not  care  for  me—- 
falsely to  tell  me  that  he  suspects  my  fidelity — to  renounce  his 
wife,  to  disown  his  child,  and  slander  both,  to  colour  his  base- 
Where  sleeps  the  justice  of  God?  What  stays  th« 


TH*   CAPTAIN'S    NEWS.  117 

thunderbolt,  that  it  does  not  strike  him  down  in  his  rampnnt 
wickedness?"  And  Sybil  threw  herself,  writhing,  upon  (he 
bed.  The  scathing  thunder  and  lightning  of  passion  passed, 
and  the  rain  fell.  Sybil  wept  as  she  murmured — 

»•  Oh,  Harold r  Harold !  I  never  thought  to  have  felt 
towards  thee  thus!  I  never  thought  to  have  spoken  cf  you 
so!" 

Sybil  sat,  pale,  exhausted,  and  alarmpd,  at  the  typhoon  that 
bad  passed  through  her  gentle  soul 

"  Great  God !"  said  she,  "  this,  then,  is  passion  !  this,  then, 
is  anger !  Oh  !  now,  indeed,  I  know  there  is  no  need  of  a  lake 
of  burning  fire ;  oar  bosoms  may  be  a  hell,  as  mine  has  just 
proved;  our  own  passions  may  be  tormenting  fiends,  if  turre 
be  no  others.'' 

Sybil  sunk  upon  her  knees  and  prayed  ;  and  from  this  mo- 
ment may  be  dated  the  commencement  of  her  true  knowledge 
of  God,  of  herself,  of  the  value  of  life  and  the  use  of  suffer- 
ing, of  the  reality  of  another  and  a  happier  state  of  existence. 
Amid  the  confusion,  the  storm,  the  whirlwind  of  her  excited 
passion,  arose  "  the  still  small  voice"  that  whispered,  "  P'-ace, 
be  still,"  and  "Be  not  afraid;  it  is  I."  Sybil  arose  from  her 
prayer,  calm,  composed;  prospects  became  clearer  before  her 
mental  vision,  and  she  thought — 

"  Though  it  is  all  over  now  with  me  and  my  husband,  yet, 
now  that  I  know  the  worst,  I  can  bear  it !  I  have  no  further 
thoughts  of  going  to  him.  I  must  bestir  myself  to  find  some 
means  of  support  for  myself  and  child.  I  will  trust  to  God'a 
blessing  on  my  best  exertions.  I  will  work  and  pray ;  and 
I  shall  succeed,  I  know  I  shall." 

With  newly  inspired  courage,  Sybil  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  went  to  the  door ;  but  the  rain,  that  again  tame 
down  iu  torrents,  arrested  her  purpose  of  going  out. 

Sybil  was  a  good  performer  on  the  piano  and  harp,  and  she 
nought  to  obtain  pupils  in  hex  art ;  but  she  was  a  stranger, 
without  letters  of  introduction,  and  her  efforts  of  course  failed 


118  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

of  success.  She  then  thought  of  writing  to  her  relative,  Gene- 
ral Bushrod  Brotherton,  the  successful  litigant  in  the  suit  in 
chancery,  and  the  present  possessor  of  Brotherton  Hall.  She 
wrote,  and,  telling  him  of  her  destitution,  requested  him  to 
obtain  for  her  the  testimonials  of  some  of  her  former  neigh- 
oours. 


GENERAL  BUSHttOD  BROTHERTON. 

A.  WEEK  from  this  time  she  went  to  the  postcoffice,  hoping 
U  receive  her  expected  packet  of  testimonials.  Before  she 
came  nome,  a  storm  of  wind  and  snow  arose  and  raged  with 
great  violence.  Old  Katy  stood  at  the  cottage  gate,  looking 
the  picture  of  dismay,  and  whispering  to  herself — 

"  Pooi  ihitig !  she'll  catch  her  death ;  and  then  all  her  trou- 
bles will  X>e  over !" 

In  the  tkuosc  of  Katy's  lamentation,  a  travelling  carriage 
drew  up  before  thtr  door,  a  servant  jumped  off  from  behind, 
let  down  tLe  s'cps,  and  an  old  gentleman,  with  a  military  air, 
alighted  and  walked  towards  the  house. 

"  Well !  brcss  too  Lord  !  if  here  ain't  General  Bushrod 
Brotherton  himself  tf  exclaimed  Katy,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
hastened  to  open  the  gate. 

"  Well,  old  woman  !  Katy,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir — Katy,  sir — yes,  sir,"  answered  the  old  woman, 
curtsying  at  every  two  words. 

"  She's  gone  out,  sir  j  she'll  soon  be  home,  sir.  Will  you 
come  in  ?" 

General  Brotherton  followed  the  old  servant  into  the  house, 
and  in  half  an  hour  after,  Sybil  came  home.  Katy  was  on  the 
watch  for  her,  and,  meeting  her,  said — 

"  Oh !  Mrs.  Middleton !  who  you  think  is  here,  ma'am  ? 
General  Brotherton  is  in  the  house.  Come  round  the  kitchen 
way,  to  change  your  dress.  I  stole  your  best  gown  out  of 
your  room,  for  you  to  put  on  there." 


GENERAL     BROTHERTON.  119 

Be  it  known  to  the  reader,  that  there  was  no  getting  into 
Sybil's  chamber  but  through  the  parlour;  hence  Katy's  little 
piece  of  finesse.  Sybil  changed  her  dress  quickly,  and  went 
into  the  parlour. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Middleton,  or  my  sweet  cousin  Sybil — if 
}  m  will  permit  me  to  call  you  so — how  pleased  I  am  at  this 
opportunity  of  making  your  acquaintance !"  cordially  exclaimed 
General  Brotherton,  advancing  to  meet  her.  General  Bro- 
therton  was  a  tall,  stout  man,  with  a  broad,  rosy,  good-hu- 
moured face,  and  gray  hair.  Sybil  was  rather  prepossessed 
with  his  appearance,  and  received  him  kindly  and  gracefully. 
After  a  little  unimportant  conversation,  and  a  few  remarks 
that  led  to  the  subject,  General  Brotherton  observed — 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  little  cousin  Sybil,  you  will  do  me  the 
justice  to  believe  fchat  I  would  never  have  molested  Mrs.  Bro- 
therton in  the  possession  of  her  home  during  her  life." 

"  Had  she  lived,"  replied  Sybil,  "  Mrs.  Brotherton  would 
have  acknowledged  the  kind  intention,  as  I  do,  with  deep  gra. 
titudc." 

"  There  is  more  I  wished  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  cousin 
Sybil ;  but  I  am  a  blunt  old  man,  and  may  not  know  how  to 
approach  the  subject  with  the  necessary  tact  and  delicacy,  per- 
haps ;  and  I  may  offend  when  I  desire  to  please.  If  I  do, 
you  will  forgive  me,  will  you  not,  my  dear  cousin  ?  Well,  this 
is  what  I  wished  to  say  :  First,  I  have  received  your  letter, 
and  that  has  brought  me  to  town.  Of  that,  more  anon.  Well; 
at  the  time  my  attorney  entered  suit  for  possession  of  the 
Brotherton  property,  I  had  heard  that  Mrs.  Brotherton  was 
dead,  and  that  you,  Sybil,  had  been  some  time  married  to  a 
wild  young  fellow,  the  son  of  a  man  of  wealth  and  family,  and 
that  you  were  both  soon  going  to  England,  Hence  the  suit. 
But  within  a  month,  my  dear  cousin  Sybil,  I  have  heard  ano- 
ther story — that  my  cousin's  husband  was  an  impostor  and  a 
villain  ;  that  he  has  left  her  and  her  child  iu  poverty  and  want, 


120  8  5f  B  I  L     BROTIIERTON. 

excusing  his  base  desertion  by  charging  her  with  conjugal  in- 
fidelity." 

Sybil  covered  her  burning  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !"  she  groaned,  "  I  did  not  know,  I  did  nol 
dream,  any  one  but  myself  knew  of  this !" 

"  It  is  all  over  our  neighbourhood  j  but,  of  course,  no  oi.e 
believes  the  wicked  lie." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  that,  sir,"  exclaimed  Sybil,  sud- 
denly assuming  the  air  of  an  outraged  empress.  "It  is  not 
within  the  wide  range  of  possibility  that  my  bitterest  enemy, 
even  were  he  the  most  credulous  of  fools,  could  believe  such 
a  thing !  And  I  only  wonder  that  any  one  should  allude  in 
nay  presence  to  such  a  story." 

"  There,  there,"  muttered  the  General,  seemingly  much  mor- 
tified, "  I  knew  I  should  offend — I  am  such  a  rough  old  wretch 
— I  blurt  things  out  so." 

His  manner  touched  Sybil,  and  produced  a  reaction  in  her 
feelings.  She  hastened  to  say — 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear  sir;  much  trouble  has  made  mo 
very  irritable,  and  I  cannot  bear  the  least  allusion  to  that 
subject." 

"  Very  well !  All's  right !  Now,  to  come  to  the  point  and 
purpose  of  my  visit.  He  has  left  you — that  is  plain.  lie 
has  taken  a  foreign  girl  out  with  him — one  Inez — Inez  de — I 
forget !  but  I  heard  all  about  it.  Weil !  I  have  no  nearer  re- 
lation than  you  in  the  world ;  and  if  you  will  return  with  mo 
to  Brotherton  Hall,  and  live  with  me  and  my  old  wife,  and  be 
our  daughter,  and  if  you  will  apply  to  the  Legislature  for  a 
divorce,  and  have  your  sou's  name  changed  to  that  of  Brother- 
ton,  I  will  execute  a  will,  leaving,  at  my  death,  all  the  Brother- 
ton  property  to  you  for  your  lifetime,  and  afterwards  to  your 
eon.  Come,  Sybil,  what  say  you  ?" 

The  vision  of  wealth,  comfort,  ease,  and  her  child's  interest, 
arose  before  her  "mind's  eye,"  her  heart  beat  quickly,  her 
face  flushed. 


GENERAL     BROTHERTOS.  121 

"  Come,  my  dear  little  cousin  !  what  say  you  ?" 

The  "still  small  voice"  whispered  the  moral  bearing  of  the 
question,  and  Sybil's  heart  paused  in  its  violent  beatings  to 
listen — the  flush  died  away  from  her  face. 

'•'  Come,  my  dear  Sybil,  your  answer." 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  few  days  to  think  of  this,  my  dear 
sir?  and  in  the  mean  time  believe  me  most  grateful,  most 
deeply  grateful,  for  your  kindness." 

"  Selfishness,  pure  selfishness,  dear  Sybil.  My  wife  and  I 
are  lonesome  in  the  old  house  j  we  want  company.  Think  of 
my  proposition  a  whole  week,  if  you  will — I  don't  like  hasty 
decisions  myself;  but  give  me  an  answer  at  the  end  of  that 
time.  But  mind,  cousin  Sybil,  my  conditions  are  positively 
unalterable — for  I  know  very  well,  if  one  condition  is  not  in- 
sisted upon,  that  just  as  soon  as  my  old  head  is  laid  low,  and 
you  in  possession  of  Brotherton  Hall,  that  fellow  would  be 
sneaking  back,  and  then  you'd  receive  him.  I  know — oh  !  I 
know  you  women  so  well.  He'd  be  so  penitent !  and  you  so 
forgiving  !  and  in  five  or  six  years  the  Brotherton  estate  would 
be  lost  at  the  faro  table,  and  you  would  be  beggared.  Oh  !  1 
know — I  know  so  well  I"  So  saying,  the  old  man  took  leave, 
entered  his  carriage,  and  was  driven  off. 

Now,  this  proposition  would  not  have  tempted  Sybil,  had  a 
single  spark  of  affection  or  esteem  for  her  husband  remained 
in  her  bosom ;  but  it  was  not  so.  Her  regard  for  Middleton 
had  rather  been  a  girlish  fancy,  than  a  woman's  deep  affection  j 
though,  with  a  woman  of  Sybil's  domestic  tastes  and  affection- 
ate heart,  this  regard  would  have  deepened  into  love,  had  not 
all  respect  been  so  soon  lost.  It  was  not  his  dissipation,  nor 
l.b  brutali'y,  nor  even  his  desertion  of  her,  that  had  alienated 
tin  heart  of  his  wife,  but  the  cold,  fierce,  determined  malignity 
of  iniriu — the  unmixed,  unredeemed,  unredeemable  depravity 
yf  heart  manifested  throughout  their  entire  married  life,  but 
most  plainly  discovered  in  the  only  letter  he  had  ever  written 
to  her.  Sybil's  heart,  therefore,  was  not  defended  against  the 


122  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

flolicitations  of  self-interest  and  maternal  love  by  any  affection 
lingering  there.  The  test  of  principle  could  therefore  be 
fairly  applied  to  her  unguarded,  unsupported  heart. 

When  the  old  man  was  gone,  Sybil  sat  down  to  consider 
She  was  a  stranger  and  friendless;  her  money  was  all  spent, 
an«l  her  plate  and  jewelry  all  sold ;  her  store  of  fuel  and  pro- 
visions nearly  exhausted,  and  winter  coming  on.  Lastly,  and 
worse  than  all,  she  was  deficient  in  that  spirit  of  enterprise  and 
ene-gy  required  to  meet  the  difficulties  of  her  situation.  Yet 
her  mental  debate  was  not  very  long;  for  all  her  early  im- 
pre"sions  and  all  her  religious  principles  were  against  the  pro- 
pped measure.  In  a  few  hours,  therefore,  Sybil's  mind  was 
funy  made  up. 

The  winter  set  in  very  cold.  The  air  was  frosty  and  nip- 
ping ;  snow-clouds  darkened  the  sky.  The  day  on  which  Sybil 
was  to  give  her  answer  to  General  Brotberton  dawned.  It 
was  intensely  cold.  As  Sybil  arose  from  her  bed,  shrinking 
and  shuddering  from  the  biting  air,  she  covered  up  closely  her 
sleeping  boy,  saying — 

"  God  bless  thee,  poor  little  one  !  You  will  freeze  if  I  take 
you  up  to-day." 

She  passed  into  the  parlour,  where  Katy  was  attempting  to 
open  the  shutters.  They  were  so  bound  with  ice  and  blocked 
up  with  snow,  that  it  required  considerable  effort  to  push  them 
open ;  and  then  the  dreary  aspect  abroad,  the  ground  deeply 
covered  with  snow;  the  sky,  gloomily  darkened  with  clouds, 
was  rendered  still  more  dreary  by  the  severely  felt  privations 
at  home. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Middleton,  you're  shivering  from  head  to 
foot;  let  me  go  get  your  shawl,"  exclaimed  Katy,  with  chatter- 
ing teeth. 

"  Do,  Katy.     But,  Katy,  is  there  no  wood  left  to  make  a 
fire?"  asked  Sybil,  shuddering. 
.  "  There's  one  blessed  long  log  left.     I  going  to  split  it  up 


GENERAL     BROTHERTON.  123 

now.  'Deed  and  'deed,  Miss  Middleton,  if  I  was  you,  I'd  take 
the  child,  and  I'd  go  settle  down  on  some  o'  my  relations.'' 

"Without  an  invitation,  and  perhaps  without  a  wei.-om* 
either,  Katy  ?" 

*'  I  dunno,  I  danno,  Miss  Sybil !  Cross  looks  don't  bite 
like  this  cold." 

"  No,  Katy,  but  worse ;  one  bites  the  fingers  and  toes,  but 
the  other  gnaws  at  the  heart." 

Katy  made  no  reply,  but  went  out,  and  soon  returned  with 
her  arm  full  of  split  wood,  of  which  she  made  a  fire. 

"Now,  Katy,  what  have  we  for  breakfast?"  inquired  Sybil. 

"  One  blessed  pint  of  flour,  and  one  teaspoon  full  of  black 
tea." 

"  Then,  Katy,  get  it  ready,  and  we  will  eat  our  last  meal 
by  our  last  fire." 

The  poor  meal  was  scarcely  over,  and  the  table  removed, 
before  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  followed  by  the  en- 
trance  of  General  Brotherton,  who,  taking  a  seat  at  the  fire, 
unceremoniously  exclaimed — 

<l  Oh  !  my  dear  little  cousin,  this  is  dreadful  weather  fox 
travelling;  yet  we'll  have  to  venture  it;  for  when  it  moderates, 
and  this  snow  melts,  the  roads  will  be  impassable  for  a  fort- 
night. Come  !  can  you  get  ready  by  to-morrow  morning?  I 
wrote  a  week  ago  to  the  old  lady,  to  look  for  us  to-morrow  eve- 
ning." 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  said  Sybil,  "you  must  not  think  me  un- 
grateful, if  I  decline  your  kind  offer." 

"  Decline  it !     Upon  what  ground  ?     Upon  what  ground  ?" 

"  I  am  not  able  to  comply  with  its  conditions." 

"  Which  one  ?  which  one  ?" 

"  That  of  the  divorce." 

"Oh!  is  that  all?  Yes,  you  can;  nothing  is  more  easy, 
It  is  only  to  apply  to  the  Legislature,  and" 

"  Understand  me,  my  dear  sir.     I  cannot  conscientiously 


124  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

take  any  stop  towards  the  accomplishment  of  such  a  measure/' 
said  Sybil,  gently. 

"  Urn — lium-m — ah  ha  !  I  said  so ;  I  knew  it ;  just  like  all 
other  women — fools  !  stick  to  a  bad  man  through  thick  and 
thin:  and  if  he  runs  away,  wear  the  willow  fifty  years  for  hla 
sake.  But  look  here,  Sybil — my  poor  Sybil — don't  weep; 
look  at  your  child ;  look  at  him,  and  have  a  little  mercy  ou 
his  tender  frame  and  his  many  wants,"  said  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  little  Hubert. 

Sybil  did  look  at  her  thinly  clad  and  shivering  child,  and 
the  appeal  reached  her  heart;  yet,  mastering  her  rising  emo- 
tion, she  answered — 

"I  have!  I  have!  I  have  thought  of  all  that;  and  jet — 
and  yet  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot,  do  as  you  recommend." 

"Then  God  help  you!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  rising  in 
pique ;  "  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Good-morning,  my  dear." 

"  Won't  you  sit  longer,  cousin  ?"  asked  Sybil,  timidly. 

"  No  !  no,  I  thank  you.  I  shall  be  very  busy  all  day  to- 
day. I  shall  leave  to-morrow." 

The  fire  was  dying  out,  and  the  room  was  getting  chilly,  so 
that  Sybil  did  not  press  her  invitation.  She  extended  her 
hand  cordially  to  the  old  man,  as  she  said — 

"  You  will  remember,  dear  General,  to  get  those  letters  for 
me." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I'll  do  that,"  said  he.  "  Good-bye,  cousin  Sybil ; 
farewell,  little  one,"  said  he,  shaking  hands  with  Sybil,  and 
caressing  the  child. 

''  Never  mind,"  thought  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  entered 
his  carriage,  "  I'll  let  her  alone  a  while,  and  I'll  bet  before 
I'je  mouth  is  out  she'll  be  writing  to  me,  revoking  her  de- 
cision." 

The  old  man  was  gone,  the  fire  had  burnt  out,  and  Sybil 
and  her  boy  were  left  alone  before  the  cold  hearth.  Sybil 
caught  up  the  boy  to  her  bosom,  and  wept  bitterly.  Suddenly 
bLe  thought  of  the  preacher  whom  she  had  heard  the  preceding 


THE     PASTOR.  125 

Sunday.  The  hopeful  and  comforting  words  of  bis  discourse 
c:uiie  back  to  her  mind  with  a  soothing  influence.  They  did 
more ;  they  inspired  her  with  courage  and  energy. 

''  Yes,"  said  she  aloud,  "  that  minister  !  why  did  I  not  think 
of  him  before  ?  I  know  he  is  a  good  man,  and  he  will  advise 
me  in  what  manner  to  set  about  procuring  pupils.  I  will  go 
to  him  at  once." 


THE   PASTOR. 

MRS.  MIDDLETON  ariived  at  the  pastor's  house,  and  was 
pliu\vn  up  into  his  study,  and  informed  by  the  servant  that 
Mr.  Livingston  would  be  with  her  in  a  few  minutes.  Sybil 
hud  changed  very  much  since  her  first  presentation  to  the 
reader.  Though  not  yet  twenty  years  old,  the  rose  of  youth 
had  faded  from  her  pale  cheek ;  yet  her  fair  complexion — 
large,  clear,  blue,  serene  eyes — her  sweet  serious  lips — her 
gentle  manner — and  low  sweet  voice,  and  her  mourning-dress, 
rendered  her  far  more  interesting  than  in  her  days  of  health 
and  happiness.  Sybil  wanted  self-possession,  and  she  trembled 
slightly  as  she  entered  the  pastor's  study.  The  ten  minutes, 
however,  that  elapsed  before  his  entrance,  enabled  her  to  re- 
gain composure. 

Mr.  Livingston,  the  pastor,  now  entered.  He  was  a  man 
of  about  forty  years  of  age,  tall,  slender,  with  dark  hair  and 
eyes,  and  strikingly  handsome,  notwithstanding  a  pale  com- 
plexion and  hollow  cheeks.  Mrs.  Middleton  was  reassured  by 
the  kindly  manner  and  gentle  tones  with  which  this  Chri&tiao 
pastor  greeted  her. 

"  I  hope  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take  in  calling  upon 
you,  Mr.  Livingston.  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  city,  and  I  wish 
to  open  a  small  school,  by  which  to  support  myself  and  child ; 
u.nd  I  have  come  to-day  to  solicit  your  assistance  in  my  project, 
or  at  least  your  advice  as  to  what  steps  it  will  be  proper  to 
take  towards  its  accomplishment." 


126  8TBIL     BROTHEETON. 

"  You  are  a  widow,  I  presume,  madam  ?"  said  the  pastor, 
glancing  at  Mrs.  Middleton's  mourning  dress. 

"  No,  sir,"  murmured  Sybil,  a  burning  blush  mounting  to 
her  brow. 

The  pastor  looked  at  her  in  doubt ;  then  said — 

"  You  are  probably  able  to  produce  good  references  ?' ' 

"  Sir  ?" 

"  You  are  provided  with  testimonials  of  moral  at.d  intel- 
lectual fitness  for  the  profession  you  wish  to  enter  upon  ?" 

"I  have  no  such  testimonials,  sir,  just  now;  but  I  hope  to 
receive  some  in  a  few  days,  from  my  native  place." 

"They  are  indispensable  to  your  success,  my  dear  madam,  and 
I  trust  you  will  be  able  to  procure  them  ;  if  you  do,  I  shall  take 
pleasure  in  rendering  all  the  assistance  in  my  power  towards 
the  accomplishment  of  your  object." 

A  quick  flush  passed  over  the  pale  cheek  of  Mrs.  Middle- 
ton.  She  felt  humiliated.  She  knew  that  she  was  suspected. 
She  did  not  know  that  such  was  the  case  with  every  poor,  needy, 
and  friendless  woman,  especially  if  she  be  young,  pretty,  and 
a  stranger.  Sybil  arose  and  took  leave.  Her  parting  look  of 
suffering  resignation  smote  upon  the  heart  of  the  minister. 
He  stepped  after  her,  and  said,  gently — 

"Give  me  your  name  and  address,  madam;  I  will  call  and 
see  what  can  be  done  in  your  case  to-inorrow." 

Sybil  now  recollected,  with  confusion,  that  she  had  not  given 
her  name.  She  did  as  he  requested,  and  went  her  way  homo 
reassured,  thinking — 

"  I  was  not  mistaken,  after  all,  in  Mr.  Livingston — such  a 
calm  and  holy  smile — such  a  sweet,  soothing  voice — and  then 
bis  general  manner,  so  gentle,  though  I  saw  he  did  not  thii  k 
justly  of  me ;  but  my  awk\vardness  and  confusion  impressed 
him  unfavourably  at  first." 

The  next  day  the  minister  called.  Sybil  was  in  her  cham- 
ber, putting  her  boy  to  sleep,  so  that  the  minister  sat  in  her 
little  parlour  some  ten  minutes,  before  she  made  her  appear- 


THE     PASTOR.  12? 

ancft  Mr.  Livingston  had  been  favourably  impressed  with 
S_ybil ;  be  was  now  confirmed  in  bis  good  opinion  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  her  home.  There  is  something  about  a  dwelling, 
or  the  furniture  of  a  dwelling,  that  will  impress  one  favourably, 
or  otherwise,  with  its  occupant.  Sybil's  little  parlour  told  bet 
Btory.  The  furniture  was  a  portion  of  that  brought  from 
Brotberton  Hall,  telling  of  decayed  gentility.  There  was  tho 
rich  old  Turkey  carpet,  somewhat  worn,  that  covered  the  floor; 
there  were  the  crimson  damask  curtains,  somewhat  faded,  that 
hung  from  the  windows ;  there  were  the  old-fashioned  stuffed 
chairs — the  large,  unwieldy  sofa — the  heav}  mahogany  tables ; 
and  last,  and  most  eloquent,  were  the  fine  old  family  portraits, 
all  choice  specimens  of  art,  that  hung  upon  the  walls.  There 
was  a  portrait  of  old  Mrs.  Brotherton,  of  Sybil's  father  and 
mother,  and  one  of  Sybil  herself.  One  very  characteristic 
thing  I  neglected  to  mention.  It  was  three  hanging  shelves, 
containing  Sybil's  library  of  novels  and  romances.  The  obser- 
vant eye  of  the  pastor  noted  and  drew  conclusions  from  every- 
thing; but  the  portrait  of  Sybil  in  her  blooming  happy  girlhood, 
arrested  and  fixed  his  attention.  He  was  gazing  upon  it,  in 
deep  thought,  when  Mrs.  Middleton  came  in. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Middleton,"  said  he,  turning  to  meet  her, 
"  I  must  beg  your  confidence;  you  have  told  me  that  you  are 
distressed ;  I  see  that  you  are  reduced.  I  wish  to  devote  my 
poor  energies  to  your  service;  but,  in  order  to  serve  you 
effectually,  I  would  know  more  of  your  circumstances  and 
expectations." 

Sybil  looked  in  his  face.  The  noble  frankness  of  the  expres- 
sion inspired  her  with  confidence.  She  thanked  him,  and, 
with  a  flushed  cheek  and  averted  eye,  she  told  her  story.  The 
minister  listened  with  deep  attention,  and  at  the  close  of  her 
narration  be  sought  to  direct  her  attention  to  the  Great  Source 
of  strength  and  joy.  Feeling  her  religious  svmpathics  drawn 
out,  Sybil  related  the  emotion  she  had  felt  upon  tho  receipt  of 
her  la.>t  letter,  the  whirlwind  of  anger  that  had  shaken  her 


128  8  T  B  I  L     B  R  O  T  11  E  R  T  O  N. 

soul,  her  subsequent  alarm  and  repentance,  and  the  peace  and 
hope  that  had  filled  her  bosom  since.  To  this  naive  confession 
tlie  pastor  listened  with  deep  interest;  for  by  that  glimpse 
into  the  soul  of  Sybil  he  recognised  a  nature  capable  of  the 
highest  religious  and  intellectual  culture,  and  one  therefore 
likely  to  be  refined  in  the  seven  times  heated  furnace  of  afflic- 
tion. Moral  philosophy  was  the  pastor's  f.ivourite  study;  and 
men  and  women,  with  their  trials  and  temptations,  were  the 
books  he  read  upon  the  subject.  The  refined,  the  strong,  the 
tempted  and  struggling  soul  of  Sybil  Middleton  attracted  him 
forcibly,  and  he  resolved  to  watch,  to  shield,  and  strengthen 
it  in  its  contest.  But,  of  that,  more  by  and  by.  He  did  not 
for  a  moment  lose  sight  of  the  immediate  object  of  his  visit 
— the  temporal  welfare  of  his  intended  protegi.  He  dis- 
covered Sybil's  musical  proficiency,  and  advised  her  to  com- 
mence by  instructing  a  few  young  ladies  in  that  accomplishment, 
and  volunteered  to  go  among  his  parishioners,  and  seek  out 
pupils  for  her.  Mrs.  Middleton  expressed  her  gratitude,  and 
the  pastor  arose  to  take  leave.  His  eye  fell  upon  Sybil's  book- 
shelves, filled  with  romances,  and  a  slight  smile  curled  his  lip, 
as  he  asked — 

"  Is  this  your  favourite  reading,  Mrs.  Middleton  ?" 

"  In  my  days  of  ease  and  cheerfulness,  I  used  to  delight  in 
these  books,"  answered  Sybil;  "but  now" 

"  But  now  you  require  the  most  precious  thoughts  of  the 
most  holy  writers  to  comfort  and  sustain  you — books  that  you 
can  feed  upon.  Shall  I  send  you  some  such  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Livingston;  I  shall  be  very  grateful 
But,  indeed,  you  are  too  kind  to  me — to  me,  who  hav»  no 
claim  upon  you,  or  any  one  else." 

"Pardon  me ;  you  have  a  claim  upon  me,  and  a  claim  upon 
society/ ;  and  the  claim  is  mutual.  Society  demands  of  you, 
that  you  cultivate  all  your  natural  gifts  to  the  utmost,  and  use 
them  for  its  benefit.  You.  then,  have  a  right  to  demand  of 
society,  happiness." 


THE     PASTOR.  129 

The  minister  took  leave,  and  the  same  day  went  about  among 
the  members  of  his  congregation  to  solicit  pupils  for  his  nef 
proti'ue.  The  Rev.  Stephen  Livingston  was  more  than  popu- 
lar among  his  parishioners;  he  had  a  rising  name,  and  they 
were  proud  of  him.  Any  enterprise,  therefore,  favoured  by 
their  pa.-tor,  was  very  likely  to  be  highly  successful.  Mr. 
Livingston's  proteye  was  enthusiastically  taken  up  and  exces- 
sively patronized  by  his  congregation.  A  class  of  fifteen 
pupils  was  soon  made  up  for  Mrs.  Middleton.  Many  of  them, 
at  Mr.  Livingston's  instance,  paid  in  advance;  and  in  that 
way  Sybil's  immediate  wants  were  relieved.  From  this  time, 
the  light  of  hope  sparkled  agaiu  iu  the  eyes  of  Sybil,  the  rose 
of  health  bloomed  again  ou  her  cheeks.  Her  new  profession 
introduced  her  among  an  intelligent  and  cultivated  circle  of 
acquaintances,  some  of  whom,  who  were  not  too  aristocratic  to 
notice  their  children's  teacher,  eventually  became  warm  friends. 
Mrs.  Middleton  became  deeply  yet  healthfully  interested  in 
the  progress  of  her  pupils ;  and  when  her  list  of  fifteen  in- 
creased to  thirty,  nearly  all  her  time  iu  the  day  was  taken  up 
in  attending  upon  them.  The  day  would  thus  pass  quickly 
and  pleasantly  away ;  for  my  heroine,  reader,  was  of  a  cheerful 
and  grateful  temper,  and  did  not  call  her  daily  occupation  toil, 
nor  her  interest  in  it  anxiety.  Then  upon  her  return  home  iii 
the  evening,  she  would  find  a  blazing  fire,  and  tea  prepared  iu 
her  little  parlour,  and  perhaps  a  new  book  left  by  the  pastor, 
awaiting  her.  When  the  weather  would  permit,  little  Hubert 
would  be  at  the  gate  waiting,  and  would  totter  forth  to  meet 
her.  At  such  times,  the  mother's  heart  would  bound  to  meet 
her  boy,  and,  catching  him  up  in  her  arms,  she  would  hurry 
into  the  house,  and,  sitting  down,  would  strain  him  to  her 
bosom,  covering  him  with  kisses  the  while.  Katy,  since  she 
was  no  longer  pinched  with  hunger  or  chilled  with  cold,  ^as 
as  blithe  as  a  bird,  and  sung  at  her  work  all  day  long;  while 
old  Broom,  who  had  run  his  visit  into  a  permanent  stay, 
employed  himself  in  sawing  and  packing  away  wood  for  the 


130  6FBIL     BROTHER-TOW. 

winter's  use;  in  clearing  up  the  garden,  which  he  meant  to 
put  under  cultivation  in  the  spring;  and  in  attending  to  little 
Hubert. 


THE   PACKET. 

ONE  cold,  damp  evening,  near  the  spring,  Sybil  returned 
home  later  than  usual.  It  had  been  drizzling  all  day  long, 
and  towards  evening  the  rain  had  fallen  in  torrents.  Sybil 
had  remained  with  the  pupil  whom  she  had  last  visited  until 
near  dark,  hoping  that  the  rain  would  cease.  At  last,  borrow- 
ing an  umbrella,  she  set  out  for  home.  How  cheerful  looked 
her  little  cottage,  with  the  lights  gleaming  through  its  parlour 
windows !  She  entered  the  house,  and,  throwing  aside  her 
cloak  and  hood,  looked  around  for  little  Hubert.  Not  seeing 
him,  she  passed  into  her  chamber,  where  he  lay  asleep ;  kissing 
him  softly,  and  murmuring  a  blessing,  she  returned  to  the 
little  parlour.  Everything  was  comfortable  there;  the  wood 
fire  was  blazing  cheerfully ;  the  tea-table  was  set,  and  Sybil's 
work-stand  and  basket  placed  in  the  corner,  with  her  rocking- 
chair  and  footstool  near  it.  Sybil  sat  down  at  her  workstand 
while  Katy  brought  in  tea. 

"  The  parson  been  here,  ma'am,"  said  Katy ;  "  waited  for 
you  a  good  while;  just  gone  away;  left  this  book  for  you  in 
your  work-basket." 

Sybil  took  up  the  book,  murmuring  to  herself — 

" ;  Paley' ;  oh  !  Mr.  Livingston  is  so  kind  !  No  one  was  ever 
BO  kind  to  me  before,  except  my  poor  old  grandmother.  JJut 
what  is  this,  Katy  ?"  said  she,  about  taking  up  a  packet  di- 
rected, in  a  strange  hand,  to  herself,  and  bearing  a  ship  stamp  • 
"  who  left  this  ?" 

"That!  Yes,  ma'am:  he  brought  that,  too,  from  the  pos' 
ofB2e  for  you." 

Sybil  tore  off  the  envelope.  It  was  a  London^  paper.  She 
unfolded  it,  and  read  with  astonishment  and  grief  the  follow- 


GENERAL     AND     MRS.     BROTHERTON.        131 

ing  notice,  to  which  her  attention  was  directed  by  a  couple  of 
pen  strokes : 

"  DIED,  at  his  residence  in  Portman  Square,  on  the  thirtieth 
of  October,  Harold  Preble  Middleton,  son  of  the  Hon.  Fenton 
Preble  Middleton,  and  grandson  of  the  Right  Hon.  the  Earl 
of  Mainwaring." 

The  paper  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  Sybil  fell  into 
thought.  She  did  not  reflect  upon  the  man  who  had  oppressed, 
deserted,  slandered  her;  she  thought  only  of  the  lover  of  her 
youth,  the  father  of  her  child,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow 
faster  than  she  could  wipe  theui  away. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  Mrs.  Middleton,"  said  Katy,  coming  in, 
"you  have  not  touched  a  mouthful  of  supper.  I  took  such 
pains  with  them  sponge  cakes,  too;  and  the  tea  is  best  'perial." 

"  You  may  take  the  table  away,  Katy,"  said  Sybil,  and, 
arising  and  passing  into  her  chamber,  she  fell  weeping  upon 
the  crib  of  her  child. 


GENERAL  AND    MRS.  BROTHERTON. 

To  say  that  Sybil  was  the  "  inconsolable"  widow  of  a  man 
whom  she  had  married  upon  a  slight  and  insufficient  acquaint- 
ance ;  who  had  remained  with  her  comparatively  but  a  short 
time;  who  had  abused  her  even  unto  personal  violence;  whc 
had  forsaken  her  at  her  utmost  need ;  aspersed  her  character, 
and  disowned  her  child — to  say  this  would  be  an  incredible 
libel  on  her  sanity.  "  Some  natural  tears  she  shed,  but  wiped 
them  soon."  She  remained  at  home  a  fortnight,  and  occupied 
herself  with  making  up  her  mourning,  without  thinking  of  the 
necessity  of  sending  notes  of  explanation  to  her  patrons,  who 
wore  left  by  that  omission  to  conjecture  the  cause  of  her  pro- 
tracted absence  from  her  pupils.  These  conjectures  at  length 
reached  the  ears  of  the  pastor,  and  he  resolved  to  call  and  see 
Mrs.  Middleton.  He  found  Sybil  calmly  at  work  with  her 
needle,  while  her  little  boy  played  upon  the  carpet.  No  chum'* 


132  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

in  Sybil's  looks  warned  him  of  what  had  occurred,  so  he  said 
to  her  playfully — 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Middleton,  I  have  resolved  myself  into  a 
committee  of  inquiry,  to  ascertain  the  cause  or  causes  of  your 
Belf-immersement." 

In  their  lively  moments,  Sybil  had  always  answered  his 
smiles  with  smiling,  and  his  quibs  with  quiddities,  but  now 
her  grave  countenance  seemed  to  rebuke  his  jesting.  Request- 
ing him  to  be  seated,  she  arose  from  her  chair,  and,  taking 
from  her  writing-desk  the  London  paper,  put  it  into  his  hands, 
and,  pointing  to  the  obituary  notice,  ?aid,  while  the  tears  arose 
to  her  eyes — 

"  The  knowledge  of  that  event  has  kept  me  at  home  for 
some  time  past.  Will  you  please  inform  my  patrons  of  it?" 

Her  large,  tender  eyes  were  raised  to  the  pastor's  face  as 
she  spoke,  and  she  observed  with  surprise  and  displeasure  the 
sudden,  the  involuntary  flush  of — something  that  lighted  up 
the  pastor's  face  as  he  read.  Well !  I  own  it  j  for  my  part,  I 
do  "  expect  perfection  from  human  beings,"  at  least  from  some 
of  us,  and  especially  from  Christian  ministers ;  and  I  feel  hu- 
miliated to  be  obliged  to  acknowledge  the  existence  of  a  single 
human  weakness  in  Mr.  Livingston ;  but  so  it  was,  the  Rev. 
Stephen  Livingston,  the  fervent  Christian,  the  beloved  pastor, 
the  rising  divine,  had  not  lately,  with  his  whole  soul,  wor- 
shipped one  God,  but  in  the  temple  of  his  heart  one  niche  was 
occupied  by  an  idol.  Little  did  he  suspect  this,  however, 
until,  in  perusing  the  paragraph,  he  discovered  the  real  nature 
of  his  regard  for  Sybil,  by  the  sudden  recollection  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  its  gratification.  Reproaching  himself  immediately 
and  bitterly  for  this  feeling,  he  returned  the  paper  to  Sybil, 
saying  coldly,  as  he  arose  to  take  leave — 

•'  Mrs.  Middleton,  you  may,  and  I  hope  will,  command  ray 
services  in  this  distressing  affair,  whenever  they  may  be  re- 
quired." 


GENERAL     AND     MRS.     BROTHERTON.        133 

Sybil  thanked  him,  and  returned  his  cold  "  Good-evening, 
madam,"  with  a  distant  "  Good-night,  sir." 

"And  now,"  thought  the  pastor,  as  he  turned  from  the 
door,  "  I  do  not  see  that  I  have  effaced  one  error  of  sinful 
exultation,  by  another  error  of  studied  coldness.  Poor  child  ! 
at  the  very  moment  that  she  required  consolation,  advice,  and 
assistance,  to  leave  her  so  abruptly,  without  offering  a  single 
word  of  comfort.  I  must  certainly  see  her  again  soon,  and 
make  amends  for  this." 

Mrs.  Middleton  also  indulged  in  a  soliloquy  to  this  effect — 

"  I  am  afraid,  after  all,  that  I  havv.  a  very  bad,  or  at  least 
a  very  conceited  mind ;  to  think  that  I  should  be  so  vain  as  to 
suppose  that  Mr.  Livingston  was — that  he  felt — that  the 
pastor  thought" — Sybil  durst  not  finish  the  sentence,  even 
mentally,  but,  with  a  feeling  of  self-abasement,  endeavoured 
to  force  her  thoughts  from  the  subject,  after  saying  to  her- 
self— 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  done  the  good  pastor  foul  wrong  by  my 
vain  suspicions.  Well,  well ;  I  will  be  more  reasonable  when 
he  comes  again,  if,  indeed,  he  ever  comes,  after  my  cold  in- 
gratitude." 

The  next  day  the  pastor  called  with  more  friendly  offers  of 
assistance,  and  his  visit  passed  off  in  the  easy  manner  of  their 
finst  acquaintance.  At  his  suggestion,  Sybil  resolved  to  do 
many  things,  very  necessary  to  be  done,  but  which,  with  hei 
limited  knowledge  of  life,  she  would  not  else  have  thought  of 
doing.  For  instance,  the  obituary  notice  was  sent  to  some  of 
the  Baltimore  papers;  a  letter  was  written  to  General  Brother- 
ton,  informing  him  of  her  widowhood ;  and  another  letter  was 
written  to  the  Earl  of  Mainwaring,  inquiring  the  particulars 
of  Mr.  Middleton's  decease.  Having  assisted  Sybil  in  all 
these  matters,  Mr.  Livingston  refrained  from  visiting  her 
again.  It  was  now,  by  missing  it,  that  Sybil  began  to  esti- 
mate the  society  of  the  pastor  at  its  full  value ;  she  also  divined 


134  SYBIL     BROTHERTOtf. 

the  cause  of  his  absence,  though  no  word  or  glance  had  hinted 
it — such  is  the  mental  free-masonry  of  affection. 

A  few  weeks  after  this,  when  the  spring  had  well  opened, 
Sybil  received  a  visit  from  General  and  Mrs.  Brothertou 
They  had  come  to  renew  their  generous  proposal  to  Sybil,  and, 
in  (he  event  of  her  rejecting  it,  to  invite  her  to  pass  the  first 
year  of  her  widowhood  at  Brotherton  Hall.  In  thinking  of 
Mrs.  General  Brotherton,  and  in  hearing  her  called  by  the 
General  "  the  old  lady,"  and  "  the  old  wife,"  and  "  my  old 
lady,"  Sybil  had  pictured  '.o  herself  a  venerable  woman,  not 
unlike  her  departed  grandmother.  What  was  her  surprise, 
then,  when  the  General  introduced  her  to  a  handsome,  fash- 
ionable-looking Frenchwoman,  really  forty-eight,  but  appa- 
rently about  thirty-five  years  of  age.  Sybil  had  heard,  it  is 
true,  that  General  Brotherton,  during  his  service  in  the  old 
French  war,  had  been  taken  prisoner,  and,  during  his  captivity, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  and  married  the  daughter  of  a  French 
officer,  but  she  had  lately  forgotten  it.  General  and  Mrs. 
Brotherton  remained  in  Baltimore  a  fortnight,  and,  during  that 
time,  the  old  proposition  to  Sybil  was  renewed.  As  there  now 
existed  no  obstacle  to  its  acceptance,  Sybil  gratefully  acceded 
to  it,  and  began  making  active  preparations  for  a  removal  to 
"JJrotherton  Hall,  the  General  superintending  the  packing  tip 
and  off  of  the  furniture,  while  Madame  busied  herself  among 
viilli:iers  and  mantua-makers,  compelling  Sybil  to  go  with  her 
on  all  her  excursions.  Though  no  two  people  could  be  more 
opposite  in  temper  than  the  lively  Frenchwoman  and  the 
thoughtful  Sybil,  yet  (for  this  very  reason,  perhaps)  they  were 
strongly  attached  to  each  other.  Sybil  had  parted  with  all 
her  pupils,  and  taken  leave  of  all  her  friends,  and  so  she  felt 
and  looked  very  serious  as  she  entered  the  carriage  with 
'General  and  Mrs.  Brotherton,  on  the  morning  of  her  departure  j 
so  that  Madame  said  to  her — 

"  Come !  ma  belle,  you  put  on  a  look  of  fortitude  quite 
gratuitous,  under  the  circumstances;  for  really,  I  cauuot  see 


f.YBIL'fl     DREAM     OF     IIAPTINESS.  135 

that  it  requires  so  much  moral  courage  to  reconcile  you  tc  a 
black  dress,  when  it  becomes  you  so  extremely  well.  If  I, 
now,  with  my  dark  complexion,  were  compelled  to  make  my- 
self hideous  in  widow's  weeds,  it  might  be  a  matter  of  regret; 
but  you — a  fine  girl  like  you — could  not  wear  a  more  becoming 
colour;  therefore,  leave  that  look  of  resignation,  for  I  shall 
neither  pity  nor  praise  you  on  account  of  it." 

Sybil  raised  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Brotherton  in 
simple  wonder. 

"Ah!  ah!  miynonne,"  exclaimed  Madame.  "Your  eyes 
are  quite  large  enough,  ana  very  beautiful,  just  as  they  ape; 
do  not  try  to  stretch  them  any  larger;  for,  en  vt-ritt,  I  think 
your  look  of  wonder  even  less  attractive  than  your  look  of 
martyrdom." 

"She's  not  mad,  cousin  Sybil;  at  least,  not  raving  mad, 
although  you  may  fear  it.  I  assure  you  there  is  no  danger. 
Madame  is  a  harmless  lunatic,"  said  the  General,  seriously 

Sybil  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself.  The  object  of  her  two 
relatives  was  effected;  they  had  rallied  her  into  cheerfulness. 
It  was  in  May.  It  was  late  at  night,  and  the  full  moon  waa 
shining  brightly  when  they  arrived  at  Brotherton  Hall,  and 
Sybil  re-entered  the  home  of  her  childhood. 


SYBIL'S  DREAM  OP  HAPPINESS. 

A  YEAR  had  passed  since  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Middleton  and 
her  child  at  Brotherton  Hall — a  year  during  which  she  had 
won  the  affection  of  her  relatives,  who  esteemed  her  as  a 
daughter — a  year  dotted  with  a  few  bright  days,  the  occasions 
upon  which  her  sometime  pastor  had  blessed  Brotherton  Hall 
with  his  visits. 

Her  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Mainwaring  had  not  been  answered ; 
but  then  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  fifty  years  ago,  was  not 
the  at'turnpon  excursion  that  it  is  now;  so  that  Sybil  waited 
fire  or  six  mouths  without  anxiety  At  the  end  of  that  time, 


Io6  SYBIL     BROTHERTON 

she  had  written  again,  and,  to  insure  the  safe  delivery  of  her 
•etter  at  its  destination,  she  had  enclosed  it  to  the  American 
Minister  at  the  Court  of  St.  James.  She  was  now  expecting 
an  answer  to  this  last  letter.  The  spring  of  1800  opened 
beautifully.  The  sunshine  abroad  was  not  more  bright,  \v;um, 
and  genial,  than  the  sunshine  of  the  breast  enjoyed  by  Sybil 
Middleton.  At  no  period  of  her  short  life  had  Sybil  been  so 
happy.  By  a  judicious  attention  to  the  laws  of  physiology, 
her  early  constitutional  tendency  to  consumption  had  been  con- 
quered.  By  free  exercise  in  the  open  air,  and  frequent  bath- 
ing, she  had  attained  high  health  ;  and,  during  the  course  of 
her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Livingston,  her  intellectual  faculties 
had  become  greatly  unfolded ;  and  now  Sybil  Middleton,  in 
the  full  development  and  high  enjoyment  of  mental,  moral, 
and  physical  life,  dreamed  that  she  was  about  to  attain  the 
acme  of  human  happiness;  for  one  who  had  assisted  her  iu 
difficulty,  advised  her  in  prosperity,  sympathized  with  her  iu 
sorrow — one  who  had  developed  and  cultivated  her  intellect, 
enlarged  and  elevated  her  moral  sense,  enlightened  and  exalted 
her  Christian  faith — one  whom  she  loved  and  worshipped  next 
to  God  himself — had  received  her  promise  to  become  his  wife. 
It  was  with  the  candour  of  pure  affection  that  Sybil  expressed 
the  full  joy  she  felt  in  giving  him  her  hand.  It  is  true  that, 
for  some  months  past,  Sybil  had  expected  this  proposal;  yet, 
now  that  it  had  been  made,  she  could  scarcely  believe  in  the 
reality  of  her  happiness.  That  Livingston,  upon  whose  words 
she  had  hung  with  such  deep  joy — that  he  from  whose  instruc- 
tions she  had  derived  such  strength  and  comfort — he  upon 
whom  she  constantly  depended  for  guidance — he  whom  she 
revered  and  honoured  first  upon  earth,  and  whom  she  had 
lately  grown  to  love  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  earnest 
soul — that  he  should  take  her  to  his  bosom,  to  pass  her  whole 
life  with  him,  to  bear  his  honoured  name,  to  share  his  Me.->;ca 
labours — oh !  this  seemed  a  happiness  too  full  for  earth,  and 


THE     AWAXENISO.  jS7 

Sybil  trembled  amidst  her  joy,  as  the  day  of  (heir  marriage 
drew  near. 

"  In  cue  -hort  week,  my  own  dear  Sybil ! — in  one  short  week 
we  meet  again,  to  part  no  more  on  earth.  Oh  !  the  joy,  the  joy 
to  feel  that  this  is  our  last  brief  separation  !  for  I  have  grieved 
to  leave  you,  even  for  a  few  days,  my  Sybil  1"  exelaimed  Mr. 
Livingston,  as  he  folded  his  betrothed  bride  to  his  bosom. 

"Oh!  yes,  \u  one  week  more,"  murmured  Sybil;  ''yet,  ah! 
my  own  l<.vc,  I  grow  superstitious,  and  tremble  lest  this  joy  be 
too  full  to  last." 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom,  and  looked  into  hia 
face ;  their  eyes  met  in  a  long,  full,  earnest  gaze ;  again  be 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom  in  a  silent  embraee.  Ah  !  if  they 
could  have  died  in  that  embrace  !  They  parted. 


THE   AWAKENING. 

MR.  LIVINGSTON,  on  his  arrival  at  the  parsonage  late  that 
night,  found  letters  awaiting  him.  The  first  that  arrested  big 
attention  bore  a  foreign  mark;  it  was  evidently  from  an  ac- 
quaintance of  his  in  London,  and  in  answer  to  a  letter  of 
inquiry,  written  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Middleton.  He  took  it 
up,  opened  the  seal,  and  began  to  read.  Did  a  basilisk  blast  his 
sight?  Had  he  plucked  up  a  mandrake  to  drive  him  mad? 
The  paper  fell  from  his  cold  hands ;  dashing  his  clenehed  fists 
against  his  burning  brow,  he  groaned  out — 

"  My  God !  my  (iod !  This  is  too  much  for  humanity  to  bear ! 
Let  me  die  now  !" 

He  rushed  out  into  the  air,  and  up  and  down,  through 
the  cool  streets  he  walked,  without  calming  the  fever  of  hia 
blood,  or  cooling  the  fire  in  his  brain — up  and  down  through 
the  silent  streets,  muttering  halt-smothered  words  of  despair 
and  grief — up  and  down  through  the  dark  streets,  with  a  stiange 
light  gleaming  in  his  eyes,  until  morning  dawned;  then  hurry- 
ing to  his  house,  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  saying — 


138  SYBIL     BROTIIERTOX. 

"  No,  no ,  I  must  not  see  her  in  this  state  of  mind  !  I  must 
strive  to  conquer  this.  Good  God!  shall  I,  who  pretend  to 
strengthen  and- console  others,  go  mad,  or  die  myself?'' 

When  the  sun  arose,  and  shone  into  the  study  of  the  pa?- 
tor,  its  beams  fell  upon  a  face  that  seemed  to  have  grown  old 
in  a  night.  He  was  sitting  at  a  little  table  facing  the  win- 
dow ;  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard,  his  eyes  hollow,  his  gaze 
strained  upon  a  text  in  the  open  Bible  before  him,  his  thoughts 
concentrated  upon  a  point — long  he  remained  soj  at  length 
his  head  drooped  upon  the  book — he  prayed ;  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  dared  to  pray  since  the  opening  of  the  fatal  letter; 
he  was  strengthened  j  he  became  composed — though  all  day 
long  he  remained  in  his  study  without  refreshment,  reading, 
praying,  and  meditating — though  all  night  long  he  kept  a 
vigil  there,  yet  upon  the  following  day,  which  was  Sunday, -he 
preached  with  his  usual  power  and  perspicuity.  It  is  true 
.A/at  his  congregation  were  shocked  at  his  haggard  countenance 
and  shaking  frame,  and  many  of  them  made  anxious  inquiries 
concerning  his  health.  Their  pastor  confessed  that  he  was 
not  well,  and  finally  succeeded  in  escaping  from  his  officious 
friends,  and  regaining  the  privacy  of  his  home.  Early  on 
Monday  morning,  the  pastor  arose,  and,  having  saddled  his 
horse  himself,  mounted,  and  took  his  way  towards  Brotherton 
Hall.  He  was  again  changed.  Not  a  vestige  of  emotion  was 
visible  in  his  face  or  manner.  His  countenance  was  sorrowful, 
but  calm,  resolute,  and  still.  His  manner  gentle  and  serious, 
yet  determined. 

That  day  Sybil  was  sitting  alone,  at  work,  singing  in  the 
overflowing  joy  of  her  heart.  The  little  boy  was  trundling  a 
hoop  in  the  yard,  and  ever  and  anon,  his  merry  laugh  and 
shuut  came  in  at  the  open  windows.  General  and  Mrs.  Bro- 
therton were  out  taking  a  ride.  Presently,  there  was  a  sound 
of  a  horse's  feet  in  the  yard,  a  familiar  foot-step  in  the  hall,  a 
hand  upon  the  lock,  and  Mr.  Livingston  stood  before  Sybil. 


THE     AWAKENING.  139 

ITis  face  was  pale,  and  wore  (he  impress  of  desperate  sorrow, 
yet  inflexible  resolution. 

Sybil  1) ad  sprung  to  meet  him,  yet  stood  transfixed  l»y  hia 
.ooks. 

"Good  heavens,  dearest !  what  is  the  matter?  Has  any- 
thing happened  ?"  exclaimed  she. 

"Sit  down,  Sybil,"  said  he,  gravely;  at  the  same  time 
taking  a  seat  himself. 

"  Yes — I  will — but,  oh  !  indeed  something  has  happened— 
I  see  it  by  your  looks.  Dear  love,  what  can  it  be  ?"  exclaimed 
Sybil,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  something  has  happened — something  to  change 
the  whole  current  of  our  future  lives.  You  are  growing  pale, 
Sybil  ;  summon  all  your  Christian  fortitude,  or,  if  your  strength 
fail,  call  on  Him  who  giveth  freely.  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  my  London  correspondent  on  the  subject  upon  which  I 
wrote  to  him  six  months  ago — you  remember" 

"  Yes  !  yes  ! — well  ?  well  ?" 

"  Well,  Sybil ! — my  poor  Sybil,  we  have  been  labouring 
under  a  fatal  mistake — your  husband  is  living !"  Sybil  fell 
back  in  her  chair,  deadly  pale  and  faint.  Mr.  Livingston 
poured  out  and  handed  her  a  glass  of  water,  which,  wheu  she 
had  drank,  she  murmured — 

"  It  is  over —  it  is  over — that  happy  dream." 

Deceived  by  her  quietness,  the  pastor  went  on  to  say  — 

"  This  was  the  way  in  which  the  mistake  originated,  Mrs 
Middleton" 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  !  It  is  of  no  use  !  We  do  not  caro 
to  know  how  the  poison  was  distilled  that  has  sapped  our  lives  I 
We  do  not  inquire  where  the  dagger  was  wrought  that  is 
sheathed  in  our  hearts" 

"  Sybil  !  Sybil ! — Oh,  Heaven  support  her — her  hands  aro 
icy  cold — her  breath  comes  thick  and  short.  Sybil ! — Oh  I 
my  poor  Sybil — bear  up  under  this;  be  resigned  to  ihe  will  jf 
Heaven/' 


140  SYBIL     BROTHER-TON. 

"  Comtnonpiace  !  commonplace  !  You'd  say  the  same  to  a 
mother  whose  only  child  was  about  to  be  hung !  '  Be  re- 
signed !'  '  Bf.ar  up!'  And  have  I  not  borne  up?  Havel 
not  been  resigned  ?  /,  that  have  suffered  as  no  one  ever 
suffered  before  me !  /,  that  have  been  tried  as  no  one  ever 
was  tried  before  me  !  Resignation  !  fortitude  !  What  have 
they  done  for  me,  but  to  provoke  upon  my  head  a  reiteration 
of  trial,  as  if  Heaven  were  making  the  experiment  of  how 
much  sorrow  a  human  being  could  bear,  without  going  mad  !" 

"  Now,  may  Heaven  forgive  your  wild  words,  Sybil !  Oh  ! 
Sybil !  suffer  me  to  pray  with  you,  as  in  days  past?" 

"  Pray  !"  exclaimed  she,  bitterly  ;  "  to  whom,  and  for  what  ? 
Pray!  I've  prayed  all  my  life;  and  here  I  sit,  a  tortured, 
i  blighted,  a  miserable  woman  !  I  would  I  were  annihilated  !" 
.  "  Oh  !  Sybil,  if  this  were  the  only  life,  still  you  would  have 
no  excuse  for  such  a  frantic  arraignment  of  Providence.  But, 
oh  !  bethink  you,  this  dark,  this  thorny,  this  sorrowful  road, 
if  we  tread  it  firmly  and  patiently,  will  lead  us  to" 

"  '  Another  and  a  happier  world,'  perhaps.  I  know  nothing 
of  it !  I  do  not  see  it !  I  do  not  hear  it  !  Away  with  it ! 

1  will  none  of  it ! Give  me — oh  !  give  me  happiness  in  this 

A'orld,  that  I  know."  And  Sybil,  extending  her  arms  plead- 
ingly towards  her  lover,  burst  into  tears.  Struggling  with  a 
powerful  emotion,  the  pastor  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  to 
A  window,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  where  he  remained 
a  long  time,  apparently  gazing  out  upon  the  landscape. 

Laughing,  jesting,  and  joyous,  General  Brotherton  and  his 
wife  now  entered  the  room,  from  their  drive.  Sybil  slipped 
out,  and  fled  to  her  chamber  to  conceal  her  emotion,  while  the 
pastor  turned  tranquilly  to  meet  them. 

Very  early  on  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Livingston  descended 
to  the  parlour.  He  was  to  leave  Brotherton  Hall  after  the 
family  breakfast — to  leave  it  with  the  probability  of  never  re- 
turning— yet  he  resolved,  before  going,  to  put  in  execution  a 
pluu  which  ho  had  matured  during  the  Bight  lie  had  been^ 


THE     AWAKENING.  141 

rery  much  shaken  by  the  despair  of  Sybil.  He  knew  her  dis- 
position better  than  she  knew  herself.  He  knew  that  there 
could  be  no  risk  in  the  plan  he  resolved  to  propose,  in  order 
to  rouse  all  the  energy  of  her  soul,  to  throw  off  the  weight  of 
her  sorrow.  Through  all  this  seeming  stoicism,  the  pastor 
ft-er  fe!t  the  wound  that  was  festering  in  his  own  heart. 
The  pastor  had  not  been  down  many  minutes,  before  Sybil 
entered.  She  was  very,  very  pale,  gentle,  and  subdued. 
Sinking,  trembling,  in  a  chair,  she  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice— 
"Give  me  the  letter  now,  my  friend;  I  can  read  it  now." 
The  pastor  placed  it  in  her  hands.  She  read  as  follows : 
"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  have  made  inquiries  concerning  the 
person  of  whom  you  wrote  me.  The  obituary  notice  in  the 
London  paper  referred  to  the  honourable  Harold  Preble  Middle- 
ton,  the  grandson  of  the  Earl  of  Mainwaring,  a  gentleman 
who  has  never  left  England,  and  who,  besides,  has  left  a  widow 
and  children  in  Port  man  Square.  I  have  since  learned  that 
there  is  a  relative  of  the  family,  bearing  the  same  name,  who 
spent  three  years  in  America.  This  person  is  represented  to 
be  a  sort  of  genteel  loafer,  or  aristocratic  vagabond,  who  spends 
his  time  in  '  going  to  and  fro  on  the  earth,  and  passing  up  and 
down  in  it;'  a  sort  of  amateur  artist,  and  is  now  at  Rome, 
studying  the  old  masterpieces  of  painting.  With  him  is  an 
Italian  woman,  who  passes  for  bis  wife — one  Inez  or  Inice  di 
Silva." 

The  letter  was  long,  but  it  here  left  the  subject  of  so  much 
interest  to  Sybil ;  so,  folding  it  up  slowly  and  calmly,  she 
returned  it  to  Livingston.  Sybil  was  composed,  but  it  was 
the  composure  of  despair,  the  quiet  of  weakness — the  feeble- 
ness  of  nature  was  upon  her.  Her  heart  seemed  melting, 
dying  in  her  bosom  ;  and  indeed  she  thought,  and  welcomed 
the  thought,  that  this  weakness  was  unto  death.  The  pastur 
s;iw  this,  and  felt  the  urgent  necessity  of  rousing  her. 

"  I  am  much  relieved  to  see  you  have  regained  composure, 
Icai-  Sybil." 


142  SYBIL     BROTIIERTO*. 

"Yes — I  have  regained  composure" — said  she,  sighing. 
"  But,  oh  I  my  dear  friend,  I  have  lost  your  good  opinion — 1 
know  it — I  feel  it;  through  the  ravings  of  my  despair,  1  have 
lo.-t  your  esteem  for  ever." 

"  No,  dear  Sybil,  my  esteem  for  you  remains  undiminished ; 
I  never  supposed  you  to  be  an  angel,  and  I  am  not  surprised 
to  find  you  a  woman." 

"  But  you  were  so  firm,  so  self-possessed,  so  calm." 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  after  two  nights  of  moral  tempest ;  and  my 
calmness  was  perhaps  as  much  the  effect  of  exhausted  nature, 
as  of  reason  or  religion.  We  have  both  sinned,  Sybil,  not 
hitherto  in  our  attachment — for  that  was  involuntiry,  inevi- 
table— but  in  the  terrible  arraignment  of  Providence  of  which 
we  have  both  been  guilty." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Oh  !  I  feel  that,"  said  Sybil.  "  It  is  well  for 
us,  indeed,  that  our  Father  in  Heaven  is  so  long-suffering  and 
patient  with  us.  Listen,  my  friend;  when  I  fled  to  my 
chamber  last  evening,  I  was  mad  !  The  very  elements  of  my 
being  were  broken  up — all  was  storm,  confusion,  chaos !  and 
this  storm  raged  through  my  soul  until  it  exhausted  my  strength 
1  felt  as  though  the -very  earth  had  rolled  from  beneath  my 
feet,  and  I  had  forfeited  my  claim  upon  Heaven.  Eternal 
night  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  my  soul ;  I  was  desolate, 
forsaken,  cursed.  I  was  mad  !  I  was  tempted  !  The  thought 
of  self-destruction  flashed  into  my  mind,  and  I  said,  I  will 
leave  life,  I  will  fly  to  death;  and  with  the  soph.'stry  of  pas- 
sion I  added,  I  shall  not  be  as  a  rebellious  subject,  rushing 
unbidden  into  the  presence  of  his  king — no,  no,  but  as  a  tem- 
pest-driven child,  flying  for  refuge  to  the  bosom  of  her  Father. 
]  started  up,  my  grasp  was  upon  the  lock  of  the  door,  when  a 
gentle  hand,  a  weak  infant's  hand,  held  me  back.  I  turned, 
and  little  Hubert  was  standing  by  me,  looking  with  wonder 
and  grief  upon  me — while  he  murmured, '  1  love  you,  mamma.' 
Oh  !  my  friend,  can  you  understand  the  revulsion  of  feeling 
lhat  overpowered  me  ?  I  sank  down  where  I  was,  and,  fold- 


T  H  E     A  W  A  K  E  N  I  N  0  143 

:ng  the  babe  to  my  bosom,  I  wept ;  and  as  my  emotion  sub- 
sided, I  became  penetrated  with  a  sense  of  my  ingratitude  and 
gin,  and  I  prayed;  but  oh  !  my  friend,  before  I  prayed,  simul- 
taneously with  the  fir^t  dawning  of  penitence  came  a  sense  cf 
ftigiveness.  God  meets  us  more  than  halfway  w-th  pardon; 
he  does  not  wait  for  the  bended  knee ;  he  does  not  stay  for 
tlio  forming  prayer;  he  meets  the  first  impulse  of  penitence 
with  forgiveness.  I  do  not  pretend  to  account  for  the  exist- 
ence of  suffering,  I  do  not  clearly  comprehend  the  use  of  trial, 
but  I  know  that  God  is  good;  I  feel  that  God  is  love;  I 
believe  that  we  are  not  tortured  in  vain.  But  I  am  an  egotist 
— I  have  talked  too  long ;  yet  you  have  been  in  some  sort  my 
father  confessor,  Livingston,"  added  she,  with  a  sorrowful 
attempt  to  smile.  The  short-lived  animation  that  had  boino 
her  through  this  speech  was  fast  dying  away. 

"  No,  dear  Sybil,  you  have  given  me  comfort,"  replied  the 
pastor. 

He  still  called  her  "dear  Sybil,"  for  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  address  the  failing,  fainting  woman  before  him.  in 
any  but  the  language  of  tenderness.  She  had  relapsed  into  a 
fearful  apathy — her  form  was  still  as  death — her  face  was 
ashy  pale  even  to  her  lips — the  very  torpor  of  despair  seemed 
to  have  stupefied  her — the  very  elements  of  existence  seemed 
resolving  into  dissolution.  The  pastor  saw  this  with  alarm, 
and  hastened  to  rouse  her  attention  by  the  proposal  of  his 
plan 

"  Listen  to  me,  dear  Sybil ;  there  is  hope  for  us  yet." 

"  Hope  !"  echoed  Sybil,  unconsciously. 

"  Yes,  hope.  Attend  to  me,  dear  Sybil,  if  you  please. 
You  remember  the  proposition  made  to  you  by  General  Uro- 
iherton  about  two  years  ago — you  remember,  Sybil?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybil,  absently. 

"\Vheu  General  Brotherton  is  informed  of  the  contents  of 
this  ktter,  that  proposition  will  be  renewed.  Do  you  not 
think  sc  ?" 


144  SYBIL     BROTHERTON 

l<  Possibly,"  replied  Sybil,  indifferently. 

"  Probably,  nay,  certainly.  What  if  you  were  tc  accept  the 
conditions,  and  free  yourself?" 

Starting,  half  raising  herself,  bending  forward,  while  the 
ligr.t  brightened  in  her  eyes  and  the  coloui  warmed  in  her 
c'lt-ek,  she  exclaimed — 

'•  Mr.  Livingston,  niy  friend,  do  you  advise  me  to  this?" 

"  Nay,  Sybil — I  advise  jou  to  nothing.  This  is  a  matter, 
ubove  all  others,  upon  which  you  must  not  take  advice ;  but 
I  <!o  say  to  ycu,  that  it  is  worth  investigation ;  and  I  promise, 
that  if,  after  you  shall  have  examined  the  subject  by  the  light 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  with  the  aid  of  sincere  prayer,  you 
may  religiously  as  well  as  legally  free  yourself,  and  enter  a 
second  engagement,  I  will  then  entreat  you  to  bless  me  with 
your  hand." 

"  But,"  said  Sybil,  reviving,  "even  if  our  own  consciences 
were  satisfied,  such  a  marriage  might  Impair  your  useful- 
ness"  

"  It  might  secure  our  happiness." 

"  No !  as  heaven  hears  me,"  exclaimed  Sybil,  warmly,  "  I 
would  not  purchase  happiness,  even  for  you,  at  the  price  of 
the  faintest  shadow  upon  your  Christian  character." 

"  Dismiss  that  from  your  mind,  Sybil.  Let  us  strive  to 
understand  the  will  of  God.  Let  us  strive  to  do  that  which 
is  right  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  leave  the  consequences  with 
Him." 

"  Then  tell  me  what  is  right,  my  own  dear  guide  and  men- 
t'ir.  I  do  not  wish  to  go  beyond  you  for  direction  in  this 
difficulty.  I  am  sure  you  know  what  is  right,  for  you  have 
bee tued  to  stand  between  my  God  and  myself,  interpreting  his 
wil'  to  me." 

'  >>o,  Sybil !  my  gentle  one,  this  is  between  God  and  your 
own  conscience;  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  interfere.  You  must 
'  tread  the  wine  press  alone,'  looking  to  Ilirn  for  fortitude  who 
entered  it  alone  before  you." 


T  H  E     A  W  A  K  E  N  I  X  Q-  145 

"  Aha !  alas !  and  I  have  no  father  or  mother  to  advise 
with  mo,  no  brother  or  sister  to  comfort  me,  no  friend  when 
you  are  gone  to  sympathize  with  me." 

"  Dear  Sybil,  you  are  of  all  persons  the  best  fitted  to  judge 
of  your  own  case,  by  the  light  of  religion;  no  one  knows  the 
circumstances  as  you  know  them." 

"  I  am  very  well  aware  that  it  is  considered  extremely  ill- 
natured  to  intrude  upon  lovers ;  but  when  they  choose  the 
family  breakfast  room,  early  in  the  morning,  for  their  tete-a- 
tete,  and  less  happy  folks  are  hungry,  how  can  it  be  avoided  ?" 
exclaimed  the  jovial  old  General,  as  he  bustled  into  the  room. 

How  his  merriment  jarred  upon  the  excited  nerves  of  Sybil ! 

"  When  I  was  wooing,  we  used  to  take  woodland  walks  on 
such  fine  spring  mornings  as  this.  Ask  madame — here  she 
comes.  I'm  telling  these  transported  people,  Gabrielle,  when 
you  and  I  were  transccndentalated,  we  did  not  stay  about  the 
house  putting  sensible  people  to  inconvenience  by  taking  pos- 
session of  their  breakfast  room,  keeping  them  from  their  cho- 
colate. No;  when  we  were  etherealized,  and  left  eating  and 
drinking  to  people  that  were  '  of  the  earth  earthy,'  we  rehearsed 
our  dreams  and  visions /amid  the  vasty  solitudes  of  nature,' 
as  cousin  Sybil's  books  call  mountains  and  forests.  Come ! 
old  lady,"  added  he,  patting  his  wife  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder,  "  make  them  stir  about — stir  about.  As  I  have 
been  shooting  at  water  fowl  and  not  at  hearts,  this  morning, 
1  am  smitten  with  a  rather  exacting  affection  for  coffee  and 
toast." 

The  General  had  lately  affected  to  call  his  wife  "  old  lady," 
— a  sobriquet  which  the  pretty  Frenchwoman  never  failed  to 
receive  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  at  ouce  haughty,  petulant,  and 
graceful,  which  shook  down  her  ringlets  in  the  most  becoming 
fall. 

Breakfast  was  served  ;  and  immediately  after  it  was  removed, 
the  pastor  -arose  to  take  leave.  He  bhook  hands  with  Mrs. 
Brothcrtoo,  with  tLe  General,  and  approached  Sybil  with  a 


116  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

sinking,  dying  heart — with  a  reeling  brain.  Well  lie  knew 
that  this  was  the  last,  last  time  he  should  ever  beholJ  her 
Truly  he  felt  that  he  should  never,  never  again,  see  her  face, 
hear  her  voice,  touch  her  hand — the  woman  towards  whom  his 
whole  being  tended  with  a  force,  by  an  attraction,  almost  im- 
possible to  be  checked.  His  heart  sank,  his  brain  reeled,  his 
voice  quivered,  yet  his  words  were  cold. 

"  Mrs.  Middlcton,  farewell." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Sybil,  as  her  cold  hand  fell  heavily  from 
his  grasp. 

That  cold,  conventional  leave-taking,  amid  the  merry  group  I 
and  with  their  bursting  hearts  !  Well,  perhaps  it  was  better. 

"  '  Mrs.  Middleton  !'  Well,  I  call  Venus,  Cupid,  and  Psych e, 
and  all  the  Muses  and  Graces,  to  witness  that  I  never  called 
the  old  lady  by  any  name  than  '  Flower/  '  Star,'  '  Pearl,' 
'  Angel,'  '  Seraph,'  or  '  Gabrielle,'  that  meant  each  and  all, 
from  the  moment  of  our  engagement  until  some  three  or  four 
weeks  after  marriage !" 

Livingston  was  gone. 

"  Why,  cousin  Sybil,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  such 
an  icicle  as  that  ?  Decidedly,  that  man  has  mistaken  his  voca- 
tion. He  was  intended  for  a  monk.  Sybil !  Heavens ! 
What  is  the  matter  ?  Wife  !  come  here ;  she's  ill — she's  got 
an  inflammation  on  the  brain — her  hands  are  cold  as  ice,  her 
head  as  hot  as  fire — her  eyes  are  wild.  Sybil  1  speak  to  your 
old  cousin ;  how  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  What  is  Good  ?  What  is  Evil  ?  Where  is  God  ?"  asked 
Sybil,  wildly. 

"Oh;  my  good  gracious;  she's  mad,  raving  mad.  Old 
lady,  I  say  !  All  owing  to  that  strong  coffee — destroyed  her 
nervous  system.  All  owing  to  coffee  and  novels — drinking 
strong  coffee  and  eating — I  mean  reading — ncvels,  I  know." 

"You  know  nothing  about  it.  Leave  the  room,  General— 
you're  liks  a  bear  nursing  a  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Brotherton. 
coring  in. 


T  H  E     A  W  A  K  E  N  I  N  0.  147 

"  Yes ;  but  G;ibe — I  mean  old  lady"  amended  the  General, 
spitefully — "fhe's  very  ill,  I  tell  you." 

"  She  is  not.  It  is  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  brain — nothing 
more.  Leave  her  to  me." 

The  General  left  the  room,  grumbling,  "  she's  my  cousin, 
G  ibrielle — not  yours." 

Madame  looked  after  him  with  a  fond,  quizzing  smile. 
She  understood  the  patholoyy  and  treatment  of  overwrought 
passion  as  well  as  a  Parisian  doctor.  Delicately  refraining 
from  expressing  any  surprise,  or  asking  any  questions,  she  ap- 
plied the  necessary  remedies,  and  soon  restored  her  patient  to 
composure. 

Livingston  had  succeeded,  by  an  almost  superhuman  exer- 
tion of  will,  in  subduing  all  outward  demonstrations  of  emo 
tion  while  in  the  presence  of  Sybil.  Leaving  Brothertor. 
Hall,  he  spurred  his  horse  into  a  fungus  gallop,  as  though  he 
would  ride  away  from  himself,  or  win  the  race  of  sorrow ;  and 
rustics,  who  saw  him  shoot  past  like  an  arrow,  surmised  that 
he  carried  an  express.  Then,  again,  he  would  permit  his 
horse  to  fall  into  a  slo-w  walk,  as  though  he  were  pursuing  a 
journey  without  object  or  aim;  and  those  who  knew  his 
person,  might  have  conjectured  that  he  was  meditating  his 
next  Sabbath's  discourse.  He  was  tempted — for  he  knew  that 
it  was  with  himself — himself- — that  this  question  rested  at 
last.  He  knew  that  the  woman  whose  mind  he  had  developed, 
whose  heart  was  all  his  own,  over  whom  he  possessed  un- 
bounded influence,  who  never  questioned  his  rectitude  of  prin- 
ciple, who  seldom  exerted  her  own  moral  agency,  if  he  were 
at  hand  to  decide  for  her — he  felt  that  this  woman  could  not 
fail  to  be  won  by  his  arguments  to  any  course  he  should  point 
out  to  her ;  and  he  felt  that  he  was  responsible  not  only  for  his 
owii  aioral  welfare,  but  for  hers  also — and  he  loved  her  moral 
tvelt'aie,  above  all  things  he  loved  that,  and  he  regretted  the 
feminine  softness  of  character,  that  while  it  made  her  so 
gwec*Jy  attractive,  left  her  so  much  at  his  disposal;  and  b« 


148  SYBIL     BROTIIERTON. 

wished  that  corrected,  and  he  knew  (hat  this  trial  would  effocl 
its  cure,  by  calling  out  all  the  latent  energies  of  her  really 
strong  soul,  by  arousing  the  sleeping  strength  of  her  pure 
moral  sense;  and  he  had  no  fears  for  the  result;  he  knew  the 
features  of  her  mind,  as  a  mother  knows  the  face  of  her  child  ; 
he  knew  that  she  would  suffer,  struggle,  but  overcome.  And 
he  knew  that  her  soul  would  come  out  from  this  struggle,  pure 
as  gold  from  the  furnace,  strong  as  steel  from  the  tempering, 
healthful  as  a  young  giant  from  the  wrestle.  But,  then,  to 
lose  her — to  lose  her  !  Oh  !  those  three  words  expressed  for 
him  the  very  alpha  and  omega,  the  all  of  mortal  agony — and, 
at  the  thought,  he  would  feel  exasperated  to  spurn  away  all 
his  earthly  usefulness  and  interests,  to  forego  all  his  heavenly 
hopes  and  aspirations,  to  possess  her — and  would  have  done 
so,  but  for  the  right-directed  will,  the  calm,  the  inflexible,  the 
unchanged,  the  immutable  will — the  regal  will — that  sat  re- 
straining, directing,  governing,  subduing,  this  revolt  of  the 
passions,  like  an  upright  judge  amid  an  excited  populace. 

The  pastor  reached  home,  and  commenced  preparations  to 
remove  to  the  South.  And  thus  it  is — whenever  two  people 
are  disappointed  in  love,  the  man  goes  away  somewhere,  flies 
to  the  North  or  the  South  Pole,  or  makes  a  balloon  voyage  tc 
spend  a  winter  in  the  moon,  and  speedily  effaces  old  impres- 
sions by  new  ones — while  the  woman,  poor  thing,  is  left  to 
brood  over  her  disappointment,  amid  the  very  ruins  of  her 
tumbled-down  castle  from  the  air,  surrounded  by  all  the  asso- 
ciations of  her  past  joy — taking  the  same  walks,  and  missing 
o'lie  from  her  side — sitting  in  the  same  parlour,  at  the  same 
hour,  logically  looking  for  the  same  form,  listening  for  the 
same  voice,  "  waiting  for  the  steps  that  come  not  back."  De- 
cidedly, she  would  break  her  heart,  but  that  some  old  aunty 
reminds  her  that  men  are  not  worth  breaking  hearts  for;  aud, 
besides,  broken  hearts  have  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  womeu 
don't  like  to  be  unfashionable. 


THE     STRUGGLE.  149 


THE    STRUGGLE. 

BUT  Sybil,  poor  Sybil,  with  her  strong  affections,  her  fervent 
aspirations  after  right,  her  feebleness  of  will,  her  rieivous 
temperament,  and  her  terrible  trial ! 

When  General  Brotherton  had  read  the  letter  that  had  been 
silently  placed  in  his  hands  by  Livingston  at  leaving,  the  old 
gentleman's  rage  exploded  and  scattered  consternation  through- 
out his  household.  You  would  have  supposed,  to  have  hcar-l 
him,  that  he  considered  the  continued  existence  of  Middleton 
as  the  very  climax  of  his  crimes.  If  he  ever  dared  to  set  foot 
in  America,  he  would  bang  him  up  with  his  own  hands,  as  he 
would  a  thieving  cur.  He  wouldn't  wait  for  that — he'd  go  tc 
Roire,  old  as  he  was,  that  he  would,  and  shoot  the  fellow  like 
a  m:>.d  dog.  Acd  the  old  gentleman  drove  the  dogs  from  the 
room,  kicked  the  cat,  scolded  the  servants,  and  frightened  the 
child,  by  way  of  convincing  people  that  he  meant  what  he 
said. 

After  a  few  days,  having  reconsidered  the  subject  of  setting 
Providence  right  in  this  matter  of  life  and  death,  General 
Brotherton  renewed  his  former  proposition,  and  pressed  Sybil 
to  its  adoption — using  all  the  arguments  that  his  clear,  logical, 
worldly  view  of  the  affair  could  suggest.  Sybil,  whom  the 
surges  of  emotion,  that  had  swept  over  her,  had  left  quiet  and 
weak,  replied,  that  she  would  think  of  it. 

"  She  will  '  think  of  it.'  Gabrielle  !  do  you  hear  ?  She 
'will  think  of  it;'  that's  a  great  point  gained.  It's  easy  to 
perceive  that  her  desire  for  the  crown  of  martyrdom  is  con- 
siderably diminished.  I  should  judge  the  parson  had  set  her 
right  upon  some  points  of  Christian  doctrine." 

And  Sybil  did  think  of  it — until  her  brain  reeled  uiid  her 
reason  tottered.  She  did  not  examine  the  moral  Mid  legal 
authorities  upon  the  subject,  for  she  did  not  possess  a  logical 
mind,  and  she  said,  properly  enough,  "  They  will  only  confuse 


1 50  SYBIL     B  R  0  T  II  E  R  T  0  X. 

my  mind  with  their  arguments  and  counter  arguments,  for 
half  the  time  they  are  more  desirous  to  conquer  in  controversy, 
*han  to  find  truth  j  but  I  will  go  to  the  fount  of  light  and  truth 
— I  will  go  to  the  Bible;"  and  she  went  to  the  Bible,  and  she 
searched  with  care,  with  eagerness,  with  breathless  avidity, 
with  an  earnest  desire  to  find  that  which  she  sought — Christian 
permission  to  free  herself;  and  she  found  that  there  is  but  one 
cause  for  which  a  man  may  divorce  his  wife,  and  no  cause, 
none,  for  which  a  woman  may  divorce  her  husband  and  marry 
again.  There  is  something  in  Bible  truth  that  heals  while  it 
probes,  tha*  strengthens  while  it  chastises.  He  who  laid  down 
this  seemingly  partial  law  understood  the  hearts  of  women, 
and  knew  the  comparatively  spiritual  nature  of  their  affections. 
He  who  delivered  this  stringent  command  was  himself  steeped 
to  the  lips  in  suffering,  was  himself  "  tempted  in  all  things  as 
we  are."  Never  before  had  Sybil  so  sympathized  (thus  to 
speak)  with  the  Saviour's  sufferings,  never  had  she  so  realized 
the  Saviour's  temptations,  never  had  she  so  received  the  great 
lesson  of  the  Saviour's  life  and  death,  as  now,  when,  "  search- 
ing the  Scriptures"  in  sorrow  and  temptation,  and  in  the  ten- 
derness of  her  melted  heart,  she  breathed  forth — 

"  Not  all  thy  promises,  oh  !  Saviour,  affect  me  so  much  as 
thy  example  and  thy  sufferings.  I  will  bear  my  cross,  even 
so,  Sufferer  and  Saviour,  for  it  was  thy  way." 

All  emotion,  even  religious  emotion,  is  short-lived,  and  not 
to  be  trusted.  The  only  permanent  safety  is  in  a  clear  con- 
ception of  duty,  and  a  resolute  determination  to  act  up  to  it, 
looking  to  God  for  strength.  So  true  is  this,  that  through  all 
their  teaching,  the  Saviour  and  his  Apostles  seldom  or  never 
appeal  to  passion  or  imagination — generally  to  reason. 

Sybil's  religious  enthusiasm  subsided,  and  then  came  the 
temptation  in  its  might — the  temptation  of  a  lifetime,  the  trial 
of  principle,  the  test  of  faith,  the  crisis  of  character, — the  point 
upon  which  all  that  could  blind  to  right,  all  that  could  teiupt 
to  t  vil,  were  brought  to  a  focus.  To  every  one  who  has  passed 


TUB     STRUGGLE.  151 

jnsullied  through  the  lesser  temptations  of  this  world,  toeverj 
one  upon  whom  the  common  trials  of  life  have  bad  little  influ- 
ence, to  every  one  who  has  attained  a  certain  moral  point  of 
ebvation,  there  comes  once  in  life  one  trial  of  pre-eminent 
strength,  one  temptation  of  almost  irresistible  might,  one  test 
of  infallible  truth — a  temptation,  through  the  most  powerful 
passion  of  the  soul,  of  the  weakest  point  in  the  character. 
This  touchstone  may  be  applied  in  youth,  in  mid-life,  or  in 
age;  and  the  result  is  almost  invariably  final,  giving  the  bent 
to  character  for  time  and  for  eternity.  To  one  whose  beset- 
ting sin  is  avarice,  this  test  may  come  in  the  shape  of  some 
rare  chance  to  secure  a  great  pecuniary  profit,  at  the  cost  of  a 
slight  departure  from  rectitude;  and  it  may  come  in  a  time  of 
great  penury  and  severe  privation,  and  it  may  offer  affluence 
»t  the  price  of  integrity.  How  severe  his  struggle  then ! 
Will  he  stop  to  inquire,  "What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he 
gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?"  To  one  of  a 
higher  grade,  for  whom  wealth  has  but  little  attraction,  but 
to  whom  the  applause  of  men  is  as  the  breath  of  life,  it  may 
come,  this  touchstone,  in  the  form  of  some  golden  opportunity 
of  securing  popular  favour  by  a  slight  deviation  from  the 
straight  line  of  duty — as  when  some  great  statesman,  whose 
popularity  is  fluctuating,  is  tempted  of  his  ambition  to  engage 
in  some  popular  but  unholy  cause ;  it  may  come  when  his 
favour  with  men  is  at  the  lowest  ebb,  and  it  may  place  withiu 
his  reach  the  very  prize  of  his  life-long  hopes,  the  very  god 
of  his  life-long  aspirations — requiring  of  him  only  to  overleap 
eiiuie  obstacle  of  duty  to  reach  it,  to  let  fall  some  principle  of 
justice  to  grasp  it.  Will  he,  the  tempted,  then  feel  that  «  the 
friendship  of  the  world  is  enmity  with  God  ?"  and  will  he  re- 
member that,  the  most  unpopular  man  on  earth,  during  hia 
life,  was  "Jesus  of  Nazareth,  whom  they  crucified?" 

And  to  those  for  whom  neither  the  applause  of  nations  nor 
the  wealth  of  the  Indies  have  attraction  sufficient  to  draw  from 
duty,  but  who  are  gifted  with  ardent  affections,  aud  whot« 
9 


152  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

dearest  and  most  importunate  sin  is  to  bestow  love  and  worship, 
due  only  to  the  Creator,  upon  the  creature — to  them  comes  an 
opportunity  of  satisfying  to  the  full  the  strong  and  craving 
affections,  at  a  sacrifice  of  principle  seemingly  so  trifling  as  not 
to  subject  them  to  the  strictures  of  the  most  moral  community, 
or  exclude  them  from  the  communion  of  the  most  puritanical 
Christian  church,  but  which  the  microscopic  eye  of  a  faithful 
conscience  will  detect  and  expose.  Will  the  tempted  then  re- 
member, that,  if  duty  demand  it,  the  right  hand  must  be  cut 
off,  the  right  eye  plucked  out,  Isaac  offered  up  ? 

In  all  her  former  sorrows,  Sybil  Middleton  had  been  simply 
a  passive  sufferer,  bearing  meekly  the  troubles  which  she  could 
not  avert,  but  exercising  no  moral  agency,  practising  no  self- 
denial,  achieving  no  victory.  True,  the  mild  virtues  of  patience 
and  resignation  had  been  brought  out,  but  these  were  natural 
to  Sybil  hitherto;  she  could  not  have  been  otherwise  than 
resigned  and  patient  under  suffering.  But  now  there  came  a 
far  greater  trial — a  duty  demanding  not  self-immolation  only 
— oh,  no !  that  would  have  been  comparatively  a  light  grief, 
a  slight  test — but  the  sacrifice  of  one  dearer  than  self,  the 
casting  out  of  the  object  of  the  heart's  fondest  affections,  the 
hurling  down  of  the  idol  of  the  soul's  highest  worship.  The 
struggle  was  long  and  fierce ;  nights  of  watching,  days  of  tears, 
weeks  of  sorrow,  passed  before  Sybil  could  turn  a  deaf  ear  to 
the  solicitations  of  affection  and  of  interest,  and  resolve  to  be 
true  to  her  present  conceptions  of  duty.  At  last  she  took  a 
pen,  and  wrote  to  Mr.  Livingston  as  follows : 

"  Mr.  LIVINGSTON  :  I  have  decided.  We  must  meet  no 
more.  We  must  write  no  more.  Let  an  ocean  of  silence  and 
distance  freeze  up  between  us.  Let  us  die  to  each  other. 

SYBIL." 

Not  until  this  letter  was  sealed  and  sent,  did  Sybil  realize 
that  all  indeed  was  over.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  lounge 
—she  bured  her  head  in  the  pillows,  as  if  to  phut  out  uii 


THE     STRUGGLE  153 

eight  and  sound,  writhing  and  quivering  as  though  in  the 
extremity  of  mortal  anguish — then  starting  from  her  couch, 
and  tossing  her  wild  hair  from  her  face,  she  walked  the  floor 
with  nervous  and  irregular  steps,  wringing  and  twisting  her  pale 
fingers  together;  and  when  this  passion  had  exhausted  its 
victim,  she  lay  in  the  apathy  of  despair,  content^ with  the 
silence,  darkness,  and  repose  of  her  chamber — dreading  light, 
sound,  or  disturbance — scarcely  wishing  for  a  change,  though 
that  change  might  bring  happiness.  Alas !  for  the  reward 
of  an  approving  conscience;  alas!  for  the  triumph  of  a 
victory  over  temptation;  alas!  for  the  support  of  conscious 
rectitude.  She  felt  none  of  these  consolations  now— none. 
It  is  not  in  the  first  moments  of  such  a  victory,  the  soul 
exhausted  with  its  struggles  and  prostrate  with  its  sufferings, 
that  such  comfort  can  be  received.  It  is  not  at  the  instant 
that  the  right  baud  is  cut  off,  that  the  right  eye  is  plucked 
out,  and  the  wounds  are  still  smarting  and  bleeding,  that  one 
feels  it  to  be  "better"  so.  It  is  not  at  the  moment  in  which 
the  most  cherished  object  of  the  affections,  which  has  become 
entwined  with  every  fibre  of  the  heart,  is  first  torn  away,  and  the 
severed  tendons  are  lacerated  and  bleeding,  that  they  can  clasp 
any  support,  or  repose  on  any  pillow.  The  time  of  strength 
and  joy  does  come — and  it  comes  in  beauty,  in  glory,  and  ia 
permanency ;  but  it  dawns  gradually  as  the  morning  after  a 
night  of  storms  and  darkness.  Sybil  gradually  obtained  com- 
posure, by  degrees  became  interested  in  her  daily  avocations, 
and  eventually  grew  happy,  realizing  that  happiness  does  not 
consist  in  the  accomplishment  of  our  dearest  wishes,  but  ia 
the  cultivation  and  exercise  of  our  virtues. 

1  have  dwelt  too  long  upon  the  trials  of  Sybil,  trials  which 
were  all  comprised  in  the  passage  of  a  few  years,  which  were 
acutely  felt  only  for  a  few  weeks.  She  had  received  the 
attacks  of  some  severe  troubles,  and  sustained  the  shock  of 
one  terrible  disappointment;  yet,  now  that  she  has  survived 
the  snows  of  seventy  winters,  now  that  her  form  is  bowed,  and 


154  SYBIL     BROTHERTON. 

her  hair  is  white  with  age  and  not  with  grief,  you  might  loolt 
upon  that  calm  face,  and  believe  that  grief  had  never  convulsed 
it;  upon  that  clear  brow,  and  believe  that  care  had  never 
clouded  it;  into  that  serene  eye,  and  think  that  tears  had 
never  dimmed  it.  And  more — you  may  hear  it  often  observed, 
that  "  Mrs.  Middleton  has  a  very  young-looking  face  for  her 
age ;"  and  the  reply,  "  Yes,  very  j  but  then,  she  has  never  had 

any  trouble  to  make  her  look  old" and  that  is  all  they 

know  about  it,  reader! 

And  the  pastor !  Livingston  obtained  a  pastoral  charge  in 
the  South.  He  became  eminent  as  a  theologian,  a  philanthro- 
pist, and  a  moral  philosopher;  yet  people  said  that  in  his 
private  life  he  was  a  cold,  severe  ascetic,  proof  against  all 
tender  impressions — a  very  woman-hater;  and  that  was  all 
tlu'i/  knew  about  it,  reader ! 

Verily,  "  The  true  greatness  of  human  life  w  almost  alto- 
gether out  of  sight " 


THE   IRISH   REFUGEE. 


The  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow. — LUKE  rii.  12 

Long  years  shall  see  thee  roaming 

A  sad  and  weary  way, 
Like  traveller  tired  at  gloaming 

Of  a  sultry  summer  day. 
But  soon  a  home  will  greet  thee, 

Though  low  its  portals  be, 
And  ready  kinsmen  meet  thee, 

And  peace  that  will  not  flee. — PEBCIVAL. 

IT  was  a  lovely  morning,  that  last  Saturday  in  July,  1849. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  when  our  family  party,  consisting 
of  Aunt  and  Uncle  Clive.  Cousin  Christine  and  myself,  took 
seats  at  an  early  breakfast  table.  A  capacious  carriage,  well 
packed  with  presents  for  country  cousins,  stood  at  the  door, 
ready  to  convey  us  to  Virginia,  to  spend  the  month  of  Ausrust. 
We,  a  merry  set  of  grown-up  children,  were  too  delighted 
with  our  prospective  pleasure,  to  eat  anything,  and  so  we  soon 
left  the  table,  and  put  on  our  bonnets  and  hats,  preparatorj 
to  a  start.  We  entered  the  carriage. 

"Now,  then,  are  we  all  ready?"  asked  Uncle  Clive. 

"  Yes,"  replied  aunt. 

"  Has  nothing  been  forgotten  ?" 

"  No. — But  stay  !    Where  is  Cousin  Peggy's  cap,  Chrissy  !" 

"  There — pinned  up  in  that  paper,  to  the  roof  of  the  car 
nag"  Don't  hit  your  head  against  it,  uncle." 

(155) 


156  THF     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

"  Clive,  where  did  you  put  the  basket  of  bread,  and  butter, 
and  cold  chicken  ?" 

"There — in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage.  Be  careful  now, 
iny  dear,  or  you  will  get  your  feet  into  it." 

"No,  I  shan't.  But  hadn't  you  better  put  the  oand-boc, 
with  Martha's  bonnet,  inside  here?" 

"  Indeed,  mother,"  interposed  Miss  Chrifsy,  "  there  is  no 
room  for  it ;  for  cousin  Peggy's  bundle  is  on  one  side,  and  the 
keg  of  crackers  on  the  other ;  my  feet  are  resting  on  the  caddy 
of  tea,  and  the  loaf  of  sugar  and  paper  of  coffee  are  in  my 
lap  !" 

"  There !  let's  get  along,"  said  Uncle  Clive,  impatiently. 
"  I  declare,  the  sun  is  already  half  an  hour  high,  and  a  ride 
*f  forty-five  or  fifty  miles  before  us.  We  shall  not  reach 
Willow  Glade  before  ten  o'clock  to-night." 

"  Yesr  and  about  nine  o'clock  we  shall  be  going  down 
Bloody  Run  Kill,  and  I  never  can  go  through  the  piece  of 
woods  between  that  and  Gibbet  Hill,  after  dark,  without 
horror." 

"  Ever  since  the  pedlar  was  murdered." 

"  Yes,  ever  since  the  pedlar  was  murdered,  and  before  too." 

Uncle  Clive  now  jumped  into  his  seat,  and  taking  the  reins, 
we  set  off  at  a  pretty  brisk  rate. 

"  Clive,  don't  that  horse  look  a  little  vicious  ?  See  how  he 
pricks  up  his  ears  !" 

"  Pooh  !    Nonsense  !    He's  as  safe  a  horse  as  ever  drew." 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  now  ?" 

"  Humph  !  half  past  five.  I  think  the  next  time  we  wish 
io  get  off  at  sunrise,  we  had  better  arrange  to  start  at  midnight  j 
than,  perhaps,  we  may  succeed." 

Turnin-g  the  corner  of  the  street  at  this  moment,  the  suidcn 
eight  of  the  river,  and  the  wood  on  the  opposite  bank,  glim- 
mering and  glistening  in  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  elicited 
a  simultaneous  burst  of  admiration  from  our  travellers.  Then 
'he  prospective  pleasures  of  the  rural  visit  were  discussed, 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE  157 

fhe  family  and  friendly  reunions,  the  dinner  parties,  the  fish 
feasts  upon  the  river's  banks,  the  oyster  excursions  and  crab 
expeditions;  and  in  such  pleasant  anticipations,  the  cheerful 
hours  of  that  delightful  forenoon  slipped  away;  and  when,  at 
last,  the  heat  of  the  sun  grew  oppressive,  and  our  sharpened 
appetites  reminded  us' of  the  dinner  basket,  we  began  to  cast 
around  for  a  cool,  dry,  and  shady  spot,  on  which  to  rest  and 
refresh  ourselves.  The  road,  here,  was  wide,  and  passed 
through  a  thlvk  forest.  A  few  more  turns  of  the  wheela 
brought  us  to  a  narrow  foot-path,  diverging  from  the  main 
road,  into  the  forest,  on  the  left-hand  side. 

"  Let's  get  out  here,  Clive,  and  follow  this  path ;  I  know  it. 
It  leads  to  a  fine  spring,  with  an  acre  or  two  of  cleared  land 
about  it,  on  which  there  was  once  a  dwelling." 

This  was  agreed  upon ;  and  we  all  alighted,  and  took  the 
path  through  the  wood.  We  had  not  gone  many  yards,  ere 
a  scene  of  woodland  beauty  opened  to  our  view.  It  presented 
an  area  of  about  four  acres  of  open  land  in  the  midst  of  the 
forest.  From  the  opposite  side,  a  little  rivulet  took  its  rise, 
and  ran  tinkling  and  splushing,  in  its  pebbly  bed,  through  the 
centre  of  this  open  glade,  until  its  music  was  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance in  the  forest.  But  the  most  interesting  object  in  sight, 
was  a  ruined  cottage.  It  was  very  small.  It  could  not  have 
contained  more  than  two  rooms.  In  front,  there  had  once 
been  a  door,  with  a  window  on  each  side ;  but,  now,  both  door 
and  windows  were  gone. 

The  solitary  chimney  had  fallen  down,  and  the  stones,  of 
which  it  had  been  built,  lay  scattered  around.  A  peach-tree 
grew  at  the  side  of  the  cottage,  and  its  branches,  heavy  with 
the  luscious  fruit,  drooped  upon  the  low  roof.  A  grape  vine 
grew  in  fiont,  and  its  graceful  tendrils  twined  in  and  out, 
through  the  sashless  windows  and  the  broken  door.  A  bird 
of  pr^y  was  perched  upon  the  house,  and,  as  we  approached 
with  a  furful  scream  it  took  its  flight. 


15fc  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

"Be  careful,  Christine,  where  .you  step;  your  foot  is  on  u 
grave 1" 

With  a  start,  and  a  sudden  pallor,  Christine  looked  down 
upon  the  fragment  of  a  grave-stone.  Stooping,  and  putting 
aside  the  long  grass  and  weeds,  she  read  :  "The  only  CHILD 
of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow." 

"Whose  graV3  could  this  have  beer,  mother7  The  upper 
part  of  the  stone,  which  should  bear  the  name,  is  gone.  O, 
how  sad  this  ruined  cot,  and  this  lonely  grave !  I  suppose, 
mother,  here,  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  in  this  small  cottage, 
lived  the  widow  and  her  only  child.  The  child  died,  as  we 
may  see,  and  she — Oh !  was  the  boon  of  death  granted  to  her 
at  the  same  moment  ?  But,  who  were  they,  mother  ?  As 
your  early  life  was  passed  in  this  part  of  the  country,  you 
surely  can  tell  us." 

Aunt  Clive,  who  had  been  gazing  sadly  and  silently  on  the 
scene,  since  giving  the  warning  to  Christine,  said— 

"  Yes,  I  can  tell  you  the  story.  But  here  comes  your 
father,  looking  very  tired  and  hungry;  and,  as  it  is  a  very  sad 
tale,  we  will  defer  it  until  we  have  dined." 

We  spread  our  repast  upon  the  grass,  and  seating  ourselves 
upon  the  fragments  of  the  broken  chimney,  soon  became  en- 
grossed in  the  discussion  of  cold  chicken,  ham,  and  bread. 
As  soon  as  we  had  despatched  them,  and  repacked  our  basket, 
and  while  we  were  waiting  for  the  horses  to  feed  and  rest, 
Aunt  Clive  told  us  the  following  tale  of  real  life : 

THE    IRISH    EMIGRANTS. 

A  SHORT  time  previous  to  the  breaking  out  of  the  Rebellion 
in  Ireland,  a  family  of  distinction  came  from  that  country  to 
America,  and  purchased  and  settled  upon  a  handsome  estate 
near  the  then  flourishing  village  of  Richmond.  Their  family 
name  was  Delany.  With  them,  came  a  Doctor  Dulan,  a 
clergyman  of  the  established  church.  Through  the  influent"} 
of  th1  Delanys,  Doctor  Dulan  was  preferred  to  the  rectorship 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  15S« 

of  the  newly  established  parisb/of  All  Saints,  and  subsequently 
to  the  President's  chair  of  the  new  collegiate  school  of  Newton 
Hall.  This  prosperity  enabled  him  to  send  for  his  son  and 
daughter,  and  settle  with  them  in  a  comfortable  home,  near 
tbc  scene  of  his  labours. 

It  was  about  the  fifth  year  of  bis  residence  in  Virginia,  th.it 
the  Rebellion  in  Ireland  broke  out,  and  foremost  among  the 
patriots  was  young  Robert  Dulan,  a  brother  of  the  Doctor. 
All  know  how  that  desperate  and  fatal  effort  terminated. 
Soon  after  the  martyrdom  of  the  noble  Emmett,  young  Dulan 
was  arrested,  tried,  condemned,  and  followed  his  admired  leader 
,  to  the  scaffold,  leaving  his  heart-broken  young  wife  and  infant 
boy  in  extreme  penury  and  destitution.  As  soon  as  she  re- 
covered from  the  first  stunning  shock  of  her  bereavement,  she 
wrote  to  her  brother-in-law,  soliciting  protection  for  herself 
and  child.  To  this  the  Doctor,  who,  to  great  austerity  of 
manners,  united  an  excellent  heart,  replied  by  inviting  his 
brother's  widow  to  come  to  Virginia,  and  enclosing  the  amount 
of  money  required  to  supply  the  means.  As  soon  as  the  old 
gentleman  had  done  that,  he  began  to  prepare  for  her  recep- 
tion. Knowing  that  two  families  seldom  get  on  well  beneath 
the  same  roof,  and  with  a  delicate  consideration  for  the  pecu 
liar  nature  of  her  trials,  he  wished  to  give  her  a  home  of  her 
own.  Selecting  this  spot,  for  the  beauty  and  seclusion  of  its 
position,  as  well  as  for  its  proximity  to  his  own  residence,  he 
built  this  cottage,  enclosed  it  by  a  neat  paling,  and  planted 
fruit  trees.  It  was  a  very  cheerful,  pretty  place,  this  neat, 
now  cottage,  painted  white,  with  green  window  shutters;  the 
white  curtains ;  the  honeysuckle  and  white  jessamine,  trained 
to  grow  over  and  shade  the  windows;  the  white  paling,  tipped 
will  green ;  the  clean  gravel  walk  that  led  up  to  the  door,  the 
borders  of  which  were  skirted  with  white  and  red  roses ;  the 
clusters  of  tulips,  lilies,  and  hyacinths — all  contributed  to  make 
fche  wilderness  "  blossom  as  the  rose;"  and  every  day,  the 


160  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

kind  -hearted  man  sought  to  add  some  new  attraction  to   -h 
scene. 

One  evening,  the  Doctor  had  been  over  to  the  cottage,  super, 
intending  the  arrangement  of  some  furniture.  On  his  return 
home,  a  servant  brought  a  packet  of  letters  and  papers. 
Glancing  over  one  of  them,  he  said — 

"  Elizabeth,  my  daughter." 

A  prim,  young  lady,  in  a  high-necked  dress,  and  a  close- 
fitting  black-net  cap,  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  answered 
in  a  low,  formal  voice — 

"  My  father." 

"  Your  aunt  and  cousin  have  at  length  arrived  at  the  port 
of  Baltimore.  They  came  over  in  the  Walter  Raleigh.  I 
wish  you  to  be  in  readiness  to  accompany  me  to-morrow,  when 
I  go  to  bring  them  down." 

"  My  father,  yes,"  were  the  only  words  that  escaped  the 
formal  and  frozen  girl. 

A  week  after  this  conversation,  the  still  life  of  the  beautiful 
cottage  was  enlivened.  A  lovely  boy  played  before  the  door, 
while  a  pale  mother  watched  him  from  within.  That  pale 
mother  was  not  yet  thirty  years  of  age,  yet  her  cheeks  were 
sunken,  her  eyes  dim,  and  her  hair  streaked  with  silver. 
Truly,  the  face  was  breaking  fast,  but  the  heart  was  breaking 
faster.  But  the  boy !  Oh,  he  was  a  noble  child  !  Tall  for 
his  age  (he  was  but  five  years  old),  his  dark  hair,  parted  over 
a  high,  broad  forehead,  fell  in  sable  curls  upon  his  shoulders ; 
his  large  black  eyes,  now  keen  and  piercing  as  the  young 
eagle's,  now  soft  and  melting  as  the  dove's.  His  dark  eyes 
wore  their  softest  shade,  as  he  stole  to  his  mother's  side,  and 
twining  his  little  arms  around  her  neck,  drew  her  face  down 
to  his,  saying,  with  a  kiss,  "  Willie  is  so  sorry  !" 

"  For  what  should  Willie  be  sorry  ?"  said  the  mother,  ten- 
ilerly  caressing  him. 

"  Because  mamma  is  sad.  Does  she  want  Willie  to  do  any- 
thing?" 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  161 

"No,  sweet  boy,  she  wants  nothing  done  that  Willie  can 
ij." 

"  If  mamma's  head  aches,  Willie  will  hold  it." 

"  Her  head  does  not  ache." 

"  If  mamma  wants  Willie  to  stop  teasing  her  and  go  to 
bed,  he  will  go." 

"  You  are  not  teasing  me,  dear  Willie,  and  it  is  rather  too 
early  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 

The  widow  strove  to  chase  the  gloom  from  her  brow,  that 
she  might  not  darken  by  its  shadow  the  bright  sunshine  of 
her  child's  early  life,  and  with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness  she 
exclaimed — "  Now  go,  Willie,  and  get  the  pretty  book  cousin 
Elizabeth  gave  you,  and  see  if  you  can  read  the  stories  in  it." 

Willie  ran  off  to  obey  with  cheerful  alacrity. 

The  Doctor  was  not  able  to  do  moio  for  his  sister-in-law, 
than  to  give  her  the  cottage,  and  supply  her  with  the  neces- 
saries of  lifej  and  to  do  this,  he  cheerfully  curtailed  the  ex- 
penses of  his  own  household.  It  was  delightful  to  see  the 
affectionate  gratitude  of  the  widow  and  child  towards  their 
benefactor.  And  that  angel  child,  I  wish  I  could  do  justice  to 
his  filial  devotion.  He  seemed,  at  that  early  age,  to  feel  as 
though  he  only  lived  to  love  and  bless  his  mother.  To  be  con- 
stantly at  her  side,  to  wait  upon  her,  even  to  study  her  wants 
and  anticipate  her  wishes,  seemed  to  be  the  greatest  joy  of  the 
little  creature. 

"  Willie,  why  don't  you  eat  your  cake  ?"  asked  his  uncle 
one  day,  when  Willie  had  been  sent  over  to  the  Doctor's  on 
an  errand,  and  had  been  treated  to  a  large  slice  of  plutn-cake 
by  his  cousin  Elizabeth. 

Willie  silently  began  to  nibble  his  cake,  but  with  evident 
reluctance. 

"  Why,  you  do  not  seem  to  like  it !     Is  it  not  good  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  thank  you." 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  it  then  ?" 

"  My  fatlnr,"  said  Elizabeth. 


162  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

"  Well,  Miss  Dulan  ?" 

"1  think  that  Willie  always  carries  every  piece,  of  cake  he 
gets  to  his  mother." 

"  But  why  not  always  prevent  that,  by  sending  her  a  piece 
yourself?" 

"  Because,  my  dear  father,  I  think  it  may  be  wrong  to  re- 
strain the  amiable  spirit  of  self-denial  evinced  by  the  cLild." 

"  Then  you  are  mistaken,  Miss  Dulan;  and  recollect  that  it 
is  very  irreverent  in  a  young  lady  to  express  an  opinion  at 
variance  with  the  spirit  of  what  her  father  has  just  said." 

Elizabeth  meekly  and  in  silence  went  to  the  pantry  and 
cut  a  piece  of  cake,  which  she  carefully  wrapped  up  and  gave 
to  Willie,  for  his  mother.  Willie  received  it  with  an  humble 
and  deprecatory  look,  as  if  he  felt  the  whole  responsibility  and 
weight  of  the  reproof  that  had  fallen  upon  his  cousin. 

One  Christmas  eve,  when  Willie  was  above  seven  years  old, 
the  widow  and  her  son  were  sitting  by  the  cottage  hearth. 
The  closed  shutters,  drawn  curtains,  clean  hearth,  and  bright 
fire,  threw  an  air  of  great  comfort  over  the  room.  Mrs.  Dulan 
sat  at  her  little  work-table,  setting  the  finishing  stitches  in  a 
fine  linen  shirt,  the  last  of  a  dozen  that  she  had  been  making 
for  the  Doctor. 

The  snow-storm,  that  had  been  raging  all  day  long,  had  sub- 
sided, though  occasionally  the  light  and  drifted  snow  would  be 
blown  up  from  the  -ground,  by  a  gust  of  wind,  against  the 
windows  of  the  house.  "Poor  boy,"  said  the  widow,  looking 
at  her  son,  "you  look  tired  and  sleepy;  go  to  bed,  Willie." 

"  Oh  !  dear  mamma,  I  am  not  tired,  and  I  could  not  sleep 
at  all,  while  you  are  up  alone  and  at  work ;  please  let  me  stay 
up,  but  I  will  go  to  bed  if  you  say  so,"  added  he  submissively. 

"  Come  and  kiss  me,  darling.  Yes,  Willie,  you  may  stay 
up  as  long  as  you  like."  "  I  will  go  to  bed  myself,"  added 
sh».  mentally,  "  so  as  not  to  keep  the  poor  boy  up." 

"Well,  Willie,  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  darling,  which  wiU 
»umse  you,  while  I  sew." 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  163 

Just  at  this  moment  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels,  followed 
immediately  by  a  jump  from  the  box,  and  a  smart  rap  at  the 
do.>r,  caused  the  widow  to  start  hastily  from  her  seat.  The 
door  was  opened,  and  Jake,  the  big  black  coachman  of  the  old 
Doctor,  made  his  appearance,  a  heavy  cloak  and  a  large  muf- 
fling hood  hanging  over  his  arm. 

"  Marm,"  said  he,  "  it  has  clarred  off  beautiful,  and  Massa 
has  scut  the  carriage  arter  you,  and  he  says  how  he  would 
have  sent  it  afore,  but  how  the  roads  was  blocked  up  with 
snow-drifts.  Me  and  Pontius  Pilate,  and  Massa  John,  has 
been  all  the  arternoon,  a  clarring  it  away,  and  I  thinks,  Marm, 
if  you  don't  come  to-night,  how  the  road  will  be  as  bad  as  ever 
to-morrow  morning,  with  this  wind  a-blowing  about  the  snow. 
Miss  Lizzy  has  sent  this  hood  of  hern,  and  Massa  has  sent  thia 
big  cloth  cloak  of  hizzen,  so  that  you  need'nt  ketch  cold." 

Mrs.  Dulan  did  not  immediately  reply,  but  looked  at  Willie, 
and  seemed  to  reflect. 

Jake  added  : 

"  I  hopes  you'll  come,  Marm,  for  Massa  and  Miss  Lizzy  and 
Massa  John  has  quite  set  their  heads  on  having  you  with 
them,  to  spend  Christmas,  and  Massa  John  told  me  to  tell 
you  how  he  had  bagged  a  fine  passel  of  water-fowl  and  wild 
turkeys,  and  I  myself  has  made  a  trap  for  Massa  Willie  to 
catch  snow-birds." 

"  Yes,  we  will  go,"  said  Mrs.  Dulan.  "  Do  me  the  favour, 
Jacob,  to  pour  a  pitcher  of  water  on  that  fire,  while  I  tie  on 
Willie's  cloak  and  mittens." 

In  twenty  minutes  more,  Willie  was  seated  on  his  uncle's 
knees,  by  his  bright  fireside,  and  his  mother  sat  conversing 
with  John  and  Elizabeth,  and  a  few  neighbours,  whcm  the  in- 
clemency of  the  weath?r  had  not  deterred  from  dropping  in  to 
ipend  Chris'uias  eve.  The  old  housekeeper  stood  at  the 
beaufet,  cutting  up  seed-cake,  and  pouring  out  elder  wine, 
which  was  soon  passed  round  to  the  company. 

That  Christmas  was  a  gorgeous  morning.     The  sun   irose 


164  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

and  lit  up  into  flashing  splendour  the  icy  glories  of  the  land- 
scape. From  every  roof  and  eave,  from  every  bough  and 
bush,  dropped  millions  of  blazing  jewels.  Earth  wore  a  gor- 
geous bridal  dress,  bedecked  "with  diamonds.  Within  tho 
Doctor's  house  everything  was  comfortable  as  you  could  wish. 
A  rousing  fire  of  hickory  wood  roared  upon  the  hearth,  an 
abundant  breakfast  of  coffee,  tea,  buckwheat  cakes,  muffins, 
eggs,  wild  fowl,  oysters,  &c.,  &c.,  smoked  upon  the  board. 
The  family  were  all  gathered  in  the  breakfast  room.  The 
Doctor  was  serving  out  egg-nog  from  a  capacious  bowl  upon 
the  sideboard. 

"  Cousin  Elizabeth,"  said  little  Willie,  taking  her  hand  and 
leading  her  away  to  the  sofa,  "what  do  ladies  love?" 

"  What  do  ladies  love  ?  Why,  Willie,  what  a  queer  ques- 
tion." 

"  Yes,  but  tell  me  what  do  ladies  love  ?" 

"  Why,  their  papas,  of  course,  and  their  brothers,  and  their 
relations  j  it  would  not  be  decorous  to  love  any  one  else,"  said 
the  prim  maiden. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  I  mean  ;  I  mean  what  do  ladies 
love  to  have  ?  You  know  boys  like  to  have  kites  and  marbles, 
and  traps  to  catch  snow-birds,  and  picture  books,  and  half- 
pence, and  such  things.  Now  what  do  ladies  love  to  have  ?" 

"  Oh  !  now  I  understand  you.  Why,  we  like  to  have  a  good 
assortment  of  crewels  and  floss  to  work  tapestry  with,  and  a 
quantity  of  bright-coloured  silk  to  embroider  with,  and — " 

"  Oh  !  that's  what  you  like,  Cousin  Elizabeth  ;  but  mamma 
doesn't  work  samplers,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  dash  of  pettish 
contempt  in  his  tone.  "  Uncle  has  given  me  a  bright  new 
shilling,  for  a  Christinas  gift,  to  do  what  I  please  with,  and  I 
want  to  get  something  with  it  for  poor  dear  mamma." 

"  La  !  child,  you  can  get  nothing  of  any  account  with  a 
shilling." 

'•  Can't  I?"  said  he,  and  his  little  face  fell  for  an  instant, 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  165 

but  soon  lighting  up,  he  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  ho  !  Cousin  Elizabeth, 
I  am  brighter  than  you  are,  this  time.  A  silver  thimble  is  a 
very  little  thing,  and  can  be  bought  with  a  shilling,  I  am  sure; 
so  I  will  buy  one  for  mamma.  Poor  mamma  has  an  old  brass 
on}  now,  which  cankers  her  finger." 

"  Here,  Willie,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  have  not  paid  you  my 
Christmas  gift,  and  you  caught  me,  you  know,  take  this  shilling, 
and  now  run  and  ask  your  uncle  to  take  you  to  the  village 
with  him,  when  he  goes,  and  then  you  can  buy  your  thimble. 
You  have  enough  to  get  one  now." 

Willie  thanked  his  cousin  with  a  hearty  embrace,  and  ran 
off  to  do  as  she  advised  him.  The  family  now  sat  down  to 
breakfast,  after  which  they  all  went  to  church,  where  the  Doc- 
tor performed  Divine  service.  A  large  party  of  friends  and 
neighbours  returned  with  them  to  dinner,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  day  was  spent  in  hilarity  and  innocent  enjoyment. 

The  next  day  the  thimble  was  purchased,  as  agreed  upon, 
and  little  Willie  kept  it  a  profound  secret  from  his  mother, 
until  the  first  evening  on  which  they  found  themselves  at 
home,  in  their  little  parlour,  when  the  candle  was  lit,  and  the 
little  stand  drawn  to  the  fire,  the  work-box  opened,  and  the 
old  brass  thimble  put  on.  Then  little  Willie,  glowing  with 
blissful  excitement,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  find  his 
present.  It  was  not  there.  He  searched  the  other  pocket, 
then  his  cap,  then  shook  his  cloak  and  looked  about  the  carpet. 
Alarmed  now,  he  opened  the  door  and  was  going  out,  when 
his  mother  called  to  him. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Willie?  Where  are  you  going? 
What  have  you  lost  ?" 

"Nothing  much,  mother;  I  am  only  going  out  a  minute," 
and  he  closed  the  door,  and  began  an  almost  hopeless  search 
by  the  moonlight,  for  his  lost  treasure.  Up  and  down  the 
walk  he  searched  without  finding  it.  He  opened  the  gate,  and 
Deeping  and  peering  about,  wandered  up  the  road,  until  his 
little  teet  and  limbs  got  wet  in  the  soft  snow,  and  his  hands 


166  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

became  benumbed  ;  when,  feeling  convinced  that  it  was  lost,  he 
sat  down  and  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  Let  no 
oi.e  feel  surprise  or  contempt  at  this.  In  this  little  affair  of 
the  thimble,  there  had  been  disinterested  love,  self-sacrifice, 
anticipated  joy,  disappointment  and  despair,  though  all  ex- 
pended on  a  cheap  thimble.  Yet,  Willie  was  but  seven  years 
old,  and  "  thought  as  a  child,  felt  as  a  child,  understood  as  a 
child."  I  am  a  grown  up  child  now,  and  have  had  many 
troubles,  but  the  most  acute  sorrow  I  ever  felt,  was  the  death 
of  my  pet  pigeon,  when  I  was  seven  years  old. 

It  was  long  before  the  storm  in  his  little  bosom  subsided, 
but  when  at  last  it  did,  he  turned  to  go  home ;  he  would  not 
go  before,  lest  he  might  grieve  his  mother  with  the  sight  of 
his  tears.  At  last,  weary  and  half  frozen,  he  opened  the  cot- 
tage gate,  and  met  his  mother  coming  to  look  for  him,  and  she 
who  always  spoke  most  gently  to  him,  and  for  whose  dear 
sake  she  was  suffering,  now  by  a  sad  chance,  and  out  of  her 
fright  and  vexation,  sharply  rebuked  him  and  hurried  him  oil 
to  bed.  "  If  dear  mamma  had  known,  she  would  not  have 
scolded  me  so,  though,"  was  his  last  thought  as  he  sank  into 
a  feverish  sleep.  The  next  morning  when  Mrs.  Dulan  arose, 
the  heavy  breathing,  and  bright  flush  upon  the  cheek  of  her 
boy,  caught  her  attention,  and  roused  her  fears  for  his  health. 
As  she  gazed,  a  sharp  expression  of  pain  contracted  his  features, 
and  he  awoke.  Feebly  stretching  out  his  arms,  to  embrace 
her,  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  mamma,  Willie  is  so  sick,  and  his  breast  hurts  so 
bad." 

The  child  had  caught  the  pleurisy. 

It  was  late  at  night  before  medical  assistance  could  be  pro- 
cured from  a  distant  village.  In  the  mean  time  the  child's 
illness  had  fearfully  progressed ;  and  when  at  last  the  physi- 
cian arrived,  and  examined  him,  he  could  give  no  hopes  of  his 
recovery.  Language  cannot  depict  the  anguish  of  the  mother, 
as  she  bent,  over  the  couch  rf  her  suffering  boy,  and,  if  a  grain 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  167 

could  have  increased  the  burden  of  her  grief,  it  would  have 
been  felt  in  the  memory  of  the  few  words  of  harsh  rebuke 
when  he  had  retiyned  half  frozen,  and  heavy-hearted,  from 
his  fruitless  search  after  the  thimble,  for  the  kind  Elizabeth 
bad  arrived  and  explained  the  incident  of  the  night. 


It  was  midnight  of  the  ninth  day.  Willie  had  lain  in  a 
itupor,  for  a  whole  day  and  night  previous.  His  mother  stool 
by  his  bed ;  she  neither  spoke  nor  wept,  but  her  face  wore  the 
expression  of  acute  suffering.  Her  eyes  were  strained  with 
an  earnest,  anxious,  agonized  gazo  upon  the  deathly  counte- 
nance of  the  boy.  Old  Doctor  Dulan  entered  the  room  at 
this  moment,  and  looking  down  at  the  child,  and  taking  l.is 
thin  cold  hand  in  his  own,  felt  his  pulse,  and  turning  to  Ihe 
wretched  mother,  who  bad  fixed  her  anxious  eyes  imploringly 
upon  him,  he  said — 

"  Hannah,  my  dear  sister — but,  0,  God  !  I  cannot  deceive 
you,"  and  abruptly  left  the  room. 

"  Elizabeth,"  said  he  to  his  daughter,  who  was  sitting  by 
the  parlour  fire,  "  go  into  the  next  room,  and  remain  with  your 
aunt,  and  if  anything  occurs,  summon  me  at  once;  and,  John, 
saddle  my  horse  quickly,  and  ride  over  to  Mrs.  Caply,  and  tell 
her  to  come  over  here." 

Mrs.  Caply  was  the  layer-out  of  the  dead  for  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

How  tediously  wore  that  dreary  night  away  in  Ibi  sick- 
room, where  the  insensible  child  was  watched  by  his  mother 
and  her  friend  !  The  flickering  taper,  which  both  forgot  to 
snuff,  would  fitfully  flare  up,  and  reveal  the  watchers,  the  bed, 
and  the  prostrate  form  of  the  pale,  stiff,  motionless  boy,  with 
his  eyes  flured  back  with  a  fixed  and  horrid  st*re.  In  the  par- 
lour,  a  party  equally  silent  and  gloomy,  kept  their  vigils. 
Doctor  Dulan,  his  son,  and  the  old  woman,  whose  fearful 
errand  made  her  very  presence  a  horror,  formed  the  group. 
The  old  woman  at  last,  weary  at  holding  her  tongue  so  long. 
10 


20f  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE 

brose  silence  by  saying,  "I  always  thought  that  child  would 
never  be  raised,  sir — he  was  so  smart  and  clever,  and  so  duti- 
ful to  his  ma.  He  was  too  good  for  this  world,  sir.  How 
long  has  he  been  sick,  sir  ?" 

"Little  more  than  a  week;  but  I  beg  you  will  be  fcilcutj 
lest  you  disturb  them  in  the  next  room." 

"  Yes,  sir,  certainly.  Sick  people  ought  to  be  kept  qulut, 
though  perhaps  that  don't  much  matter  when  they  are  dying. 
Well,  poor  little  fellow,  he  was  a  pretty  child,  and  will  look 
lovely  in  his  shroud  and  cap,  and — " 

"  Hush !"  exclaimed  John  Dulan,  in  a  tone  so  stern  that 
the  woman  was  constrained  to  be  silent. 

Daylight  was  now  peeping  in  at  the  windows.  The  Doctor 
arose,  put  out  the  lamps,  opened  the  shutters,  stirred  the  fire, 
and  went  into  the  next  room.  The  widow  was  sitting  in  the 
same  place,  holding  one  of  the  boy's  hands  between  her  own, 
her  head  bowed  down  upon  it.  The  Doctor  looked  at  the 
child;  his  eyes  were  now  closed,  as  if  in  sleep;  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  brow,  and  bending  down,  intently  gazed  upon 
him.  The  child  opened  his  eyes  slowly.  Passing  quickly 
round  tha  bed,  the  Doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  the  recumbent 
head  and  said  :  "  Look  up,  Hannah,  your  child  is  restored." 
With  an  ecstatic  expression  of  gratitude  and  joy,  the  mother 
•started  to  her  feet,  and  gazed  upon  her  boy. 

"  Kiss  me,  mamma,"  said  Willie,  opening  his  gentle  eyes,  in 
which  beamed  a  quiet  look  of  recognition  and  love.  The  mother 
kissed  her  child  repeatedly  and  fervently,  while  exclamations 
of  profound  gratitude  to  Heaven  escaped  her.  The  Doctor 
went  to  the  window,  and  threw  open  the  shutters.  The  rising 
Bun  poured  his  light  into  the  room,  and  lit  it  up  with  splen- 
dour. 

I  must  transport  you  now,  in  imagination,  over  a  few  years 
of  time  and  a  few  miles  of  country,  and  take  you  into  a  splendid 
drawing-room,  in  the  handsome  country-house  of  the  Dolany's, 
which,  you  remember,  I  described  in  the  first  part  of  this 


THE     IUIS1I      REFUGEE.  lG9 

story,  situated  near  the  town  of  Richmond.  On  a  luxurious 
sofa,  in  this  superb  room,  reclined  a  most  beautiful  woman 
Her  gulden  hair  divided  above  a  high  and  classic  brow,  fell, 
flashing  and  glittering  upon  her  white  bosom,  like  sunbeams 
on  the  snow.  Her  eyes — but  who  can  describe  those  glorinis 
eyes  of  living  sapphire  ?  Sapphire!  Compare  her  eloquent 
eyes  to  soulless  gems  ?  Her  eyes  !  Why,  when  their  serious 
light  was  turned  upon  you,  you  would  feel  spell-bound,  en- 
tranced, as  by  a  strain  of  rich  and  solemn  music,  and  whoc 
their  merry  glance  caught  yours,  you'd  think  there  could  not 
be  a  grief  or  a  sin  on  earth  !  But  the  greatest  charm  in  that 
fascinating  countenance,  was  the  lips,  small,  full,  red,  their 
habitual  expression  being  that  of  heavenly  serenity  and  good- 
ness. 

Bending  over  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  his  head  resting  upon  his 
hand,  was  a  young  man ;  his  eyes  earnestly,  anxiously,  plead- 
ingly fixed  upon  the  face  of  his  companion,  in  whose  ear,  iu 
a  full,  rich,  and  passionate  tone,  he  was  pouring  a  tale  of  love, 
hopeless  almost  to  despair.  The  girl  listened  with  a  saddened 
countenance,  and  turning  her  large  eyes,  humid  with  tears, 
upon  his  face,  she  spoke — 

"  Richard,  I  am  grieved  beyond  measure.  Oh,  cousin,  I 
do  not  merit  your  deep  and  earnest  love.  I  ani  an  ingrate  ! 
I  do  not  return  it." 

"  Do  you  dislike  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  indeed  I  do  not — I  esteem  and  respect 
you ;  nay,  more,  I  love  you  as  a  brother." 

"  Then,  dear,  dearest  Alice,  since  I  am  honoured  with  your 
esteem,  if  not  blessed  with  your  love,  give  me  your  hand — bo 
my  wife — and  ultimately  perhaps " 

"  Horrible !"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  leaving  the  room 
abruptly. 

"  What  the  d — 1  does  that  fool  mean?"  exclaimed  Richard 
Delany,  as  an  angry  flush  passed  over  his  face.  "  One  would 
think  I  had  insulted  her.  Colonel  Delany's  penniless  depend 


170  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

nut  should  receive  with  more  humility,  if  not  with  more  grati- 
tude, an  offer  of  marriage  from  his  heir.  But  I  see  how  it  is  : 
She  loves  that  beggarly  Dulan — that  wretched  usher.  But, 
death — death  to  the  poverty-stricken  wretch,  if  he  presume  to 
cross  my  path  I"  and  the  clenched  fists,  livid  complexion,  and 
grinding  teeth  gave  fearful  testimony  to  the  deadly  hatred 
that  had  sprung  up  in  his  bosom. 

At  this  moment,  Colonel  Delany  entered  the  room,  and 
taking  a  seat,  said — 

"  Richard,  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  you,  and  I  wish  you 
seriously  to  attend.  You  know  that  I  am  your  best,  your 
most  disinterested  friend,  and  that  your  welfare  lies  nearer  to 
my  heart  than  aught  else  earthly.  Well,  I  have  observed, 
with  much  regret,  the  increased  interest  you  seem  to  take  in 
your  cousin — your  passion  for  her  in  fact.  These  things  are 
easily  arrested  in  the  commencement,  and  they  must  be  arrest- 
ed. You  can  do  it,  and  you  must  do  it !  I  have  other  views 
for  you.  Promise  me,  my  son,  that  you  will  give  up  all 
thoughts  of  Alice." 

Richard,  who  had  remained  in  deep  thought,  during  hia 
father's  address,  now  looked  up  and  replied  : 

"  But,  my  father,  Alice  is  a  very  beautiful,  very  amiable, 
very  intellectual — " 

"  Beggar !" 

"  Father ! !" 

"  Unbend  that  brow,  sir !  nor  dare  to  address  your  parent 
in  that  insolent  tone !  And  now,  sir,  once  for  all,  let  us  come 
to-  the  point,  and  understand  each  other,  perfectly.  Should 
you  persist  in  your  addresses  to  Alice,  should  you  finally 
marry  her,  not  a  shilling,  not  a  penny  of  your  father's  wealth 
shall  fall  on  an  ungrateful  son." 

Richard  reflected  profoundly  a  moment,  and  then  replied : 

"  Fear  of  the  loss  of  wealth  would  not  deter  me  from  any 
*tep.  But  the  loss  of  my  father  would  be  an  evil,  I  could 
uever  ri«k  to  encounter.  I  will  obey  you,  sir." 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  171 

"  I  am  not  satisfied,"  thought  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  le"t 
his  son,  after  a  few  more  moments  of  conversation.  "  I  am 
n  )t  satisfied.  I  will  watch  them  closely,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  day  speak  to  Alice." 

An  opportunity  soon  offered.  He  found  himself  alone  with 
Alice,  after  tea. 

"Alice,"  he  commenced,  "I  wish  to  make  a  confidant  of 
you;"  and  he  proceeded  to  unfold  to  her,  at  some  length,  hij 
ambitious  projects  for  his  son,  and  concluded  by  giving  her  to 
understand,  pretty  distinctly,  that  he  wished  his  son  to  select 
a  wealthy  bride,  and  that  any  other  one  would  never  be  re- 
ceived by  him  as  his  daughter. 

"  I  think  I  understand,  although  I  cannot  entirely  sympathize 
with  you,  my  de?r  uncle,"  said  Alice,  in  a  low  trembling  tone. 
•'All  this  has  been  siid  for  my  edification.  That  your  mind 
may  be  perfectly  at  reiit  on  this  subject,  I  must  say  what  may 
be  deemed  presumptuous :  I  would  not,  could  not  marry  youi 
son,  either  with  or  without  your  consent,  or  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever." 

"  Alice  !  my  dear  Alice.  How  could  you  suppose  I  made 
any  allusion  to  you  1  Oh  !  Alice,  Alice  !" 

And  the  old  man  talked  himself  into  a  fit  of  remorse,  sure 
enough.  He  believed  Alice,  although  he  could  not  believe  hia 
son.  The  old  gentleman's  uneasiness  was  not  entirely  dis- 
pelled ;  for  although  Alice  might  not  now  love  Richard,  yet 
time  could  make  a  great  change  in  her  sentiments. 

Alice  Raymond,  the  orphan  niece  of  Colonel  Delany,  WM 
the  daughter  of  an  officer  in  the  British  army.  Mr.  Raymond 
was  the  yourigest  son  of  an  old,  wealthy,  and  haughty  family, 
in  Dorsetshire,  England.  At  a  very  early  age,  he  married  tbo 
youngest  sister  of  Colonel  Delany.  Having  nothing  but  his 
pay,  all  the  miseries  of  an  improvident  marriage  fell  upon  the 
young  couple.  The  same  hour  that  gave  existence  to  Alice, 
ieprived  her  of  her  mother.  The  facilities  to  amb'tion  nffVrcd 
by  America,  and  the  hope  of  distracting  his  grief,  induced 


!7'J  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

Mr.  Raymond  to  dispose  of  his  commission,  and  embark  for 
the  Western  World.  Another  object  which,  though  the  last 
named,  was  the  first  in  deciding  him  to  cross  the  Atlantic. 
This  object  was  to  place  his  little  Alice  in  the  arms  of  her 
maternal  grandmother,  the  elder.  Mrs.  Delany,  then  a  widow, 
and  a  resident  under  the  roof  of  her  son,  Colonel  Delany.  A 
few  weeks  after  the  sailing  of  the  ship  in  which,  with  his  in- 
fant daughter,  Mr.  Raymond  took  passage,  the  small-pox  broke 
out  on  board,  and  he  was  -»ne  of  its  earliest  victims. 

With  his  dying  breath,  he  consigned  Alice  to  the  care  of 
the  captain  of  the  ship,  a  kind-hearted  man,  who  undertook  to 
convey  the  poor  babe  to  her  grandmother.  On  the  arrival  of 
the  infant  at  the  mansion  of  Colonel  Delany,  a  new  bereave- 
ment awaited  her.  Mrs.  Delany,  whose  health  had  been 
declining  ever  since  her  settlement  in  her  new  home,  was  fast 
sinking  to  the  grave.  Colonel  Delany,  however,  received  the 
orphan  infant  with  the  greatest  tenderness.  Sixteen  years  of 
affectionate  care  had  given  him  a  father's  place  in  the  heart 
of  Alice,  and  a  father's  influence  over  her.  Within  the  last 
year,  the  sunshine  of  Alice's  life  bad  been  clouded. 

Richard  Delany,  the  only  son  and  heir  of  Colonel  Delany, 
had  been  sent  to  England  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  to  receive  a 
college  education.  After  remaining  eight  years  abroad,  the 
last  year  of  his  absence  being  spent  in  making  the  graml  tour, 
he  returned  to  his  adopted  country,  and  his  father's  house 
He  was  soon  attracted  by  the  beauty  and  grace  of  Alice.  I 
say  by  her  beauty  and  grace,  because  the  moral  and  intellectual 
worth  of  the  young  girl  he  had  not  the  taste  to  admire;  even 
had  he  had,  at  this  early  period  of  his  acquaintance  with  her, 
aa  opportunity  to  judge.  The  attentions  of  Richard  Delany 
to  his  cousin  were  not  only  extremely  distressing  to  her,  but 
highly  displeasing  to  his  father,  who  had  formed,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  most  ambitious  projects  fur  his  son.  Richard  Delany 
was  not  far  wrong  in  his  conjecture  concerning  the  young  usher, 
«vho  was  o  other  than  our  old  friend  William  Dulan,  little 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  173 

Willie,  who  had  now  grown  to  man's  estate,  the  circumstance* 
of  whose  introduction  to  the  Delany  family,  I  must  now  pro- 
ceed to  explain. 

To  pass  briefly  over  the  events  of  William  Dulan's  child- 
hood and  youth.  At  the  age  of  ten  years  he  entered,  as  a 
pupil,  the  collegiate  school  over  which  Dr.  Dulan  presided, 
where  he  remained  until  his  nineteenth  year.  It  had  been  the 
wish  of  William  Dulan  and  his  mother,  that  he  should  take  holy 
orders,  and  he  was  about  to  enter  a  course  of  theological 
study,  under  the  direction  of  his  uncle,  when  an  event  oc- 
curred which  totally  altered  the  plan  of  his  life.  This  event 
was  the  death  of  Dr.  Dulan,  his  kind  uncle  and  benefactor. 
All  thoughts  of  the  church  had  now  to  be  relinquished,  and 
present  employment,  by  which  to  support  his  mother,  to  be 
sought. 

*  *  It  was  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  about  three 
months  after  the  death  of  Dr  Dulan.  The  mother  of  William, 
by  her  hearth,  still  plied  her  needle,  now  the  only  means  of 
•heir  support.  Her  son  sat  by  her  side,  as  of  old.  He  had 
Deen  engaged  some  hours  in  reading  to  her.  At  length,  throw- 
ing down  the  book,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Dearest,  dearest  mother,  lay  by  that  work.  It  shames 
my  manhood,  it  breaks  my  heart,  to  see  you  thus  coining  your 
very  health  and  life  into  pence  for  our  support ;  while  I !  oh, 
mother,  I  feel  like  a  human  vampire,  preying  upon  your  slen- 
der strength !" 

The  widow  looked  into  the  face  of  her  son,  saw  the  distress, 
the  almost  agony  of  bis  countenance,  and  quickly  folding  up 
her  work,  said  gently  : 

"  I  am  not  sewing  so  much  from  necessity,  now,  dear 
William,  as  because  I  was  not  sleepy,  being  so  much  inte- 
rested in  your  book." 

The  morning  succeeding  this  little  scene,  William,  as  wan 
his  wont,  arose  early,  and  going  into  the  parlour,  made  up  tha 
fire,  hung  the  kettle  on,  and  was  engaged  in  setting  the  room 


1/4  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

in  order,  when  his  mother  entered,  who,  observing  his  occupa- 
tion, said : 

"  Ever  since  your  return  from  school,  William,  you  hava 
anticipated  me  in  this  morning  labour.  You  must  now  give 
it  up,  my  son — I  do  not  like  to  see  you  perform  these  menial 
offices." 

"No  service  performed  for  my  mother  can  be  menial,"  said 
Willie,  giving  her  a  fond  smile. 

"  My  darling  son  !" 

After  breakfast  William  took  up  his  hat  and  went  out.  It 
was  three  hours  befoie  he  returned.  His  face  was  beaming 
with  happiness,  as  he  held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  See,  mother,  dear,  kind  Providence  has  opened  a  way  for 
us  at  last." 

"  What  is  it,  my  son  ?"  said  the  widow  anxiously. 

"Mr.  Keene,  you  know,  who  left  this  neighbourhood  about 

three  years  ago,  went  to county  and  established  a 

school,  which  has  succeeded  admirably.  He  is  in  want  of  an 
assistant,  and  has  written  to  me,  offering  four  hundred  dollars 
a  year  for  my  services  in  his  institution." 

"  And  you  will  have  to  leave  me,  William !" 

These  words  escaped  the  widow,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  with- 
out  reflection.  She  added  in  an  instant,  with  assumed  cheer- 
fulness : 

"  Yes,  of  course — so  I  would  have  you  do." 

A  month  from  this  conversation,  William  Dulan  was  estab- 
lished in  his  new  home,  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Keene,  the 
Principal  of  Bay  Grove  Academy,  near  Richmond. 

The  first  meeting  of  William  Dulan  and  Alice  Raymond, 
took  place  under  the  following  circumstances.  On  the  arrival 
of  Richard  Delany  at  home,  his  father,  who  kept  up  the  good 
old  customs  of  his  English  ancestors,  gave  a  dinner  and  ball 
in  honour  of  his  son's  coming  of  age.  All  the  get  try  of  hi? 
own  and  the  adjoining  counties  accepted  invitations  to  attend 
Among  *,he  guests  was  William  Dulan  He  was  presented  to 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  175 

Miss  Raymond,  the  young  hostess  of  the  evening,  by  Mr 
Keene.  Young  Dulan  was  at  first  dazzled  by  the  transcendent 
beauty  of  her  face,  and  the  airy  elegance  of  her  form ;  then 
won  by  the  gentleness  of  her  manners,  the  elevation  of  her 
mind,  and  the  purity  of  her  heart.  One  ball  in  a  country 
neighbourhood,  generally  puts  people  in  the  humour  of  the 
thing,  and  is  frequently  followed  by  many  others.  It  was  so 
in  this  instance,  and  William  Dulan  and  Alice  Raymond  met 
frequently  in  scenes  of  gayety,  where  neither  took  an  active 
part  in  the  festivities.  A  more  intimate  acquaintance  pro- 
duced a  mutual  and  just  estimation  of  each  other's  character, 
and  preference  soon  warmed  into  love. 

From  the  moment  in  which  the  jealous  fears  of  Richard 
Delany  were  aroused,  he  resolved  to  throw  so  much  coldness 
and  hauteur  in  hi?  manner,  toward  that  young  gentleman,  as 
should  banish  him  from  the  house.  This,  however,  did  not 
effect  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  designed,  and  he  finally 
determined  to  broach  the  subject  to  his  father.  Old  Colonel 
Delany,  whose  "  optics"  were  so  very  "  keen"  to  spy  out  the 
danger  of  his  son's  forming  a  misalliance,  was  stone  blind  when 
•such  a  misfortune  threatened  Alice,  liked  the  young  man  very 
much,  and  could  see  nothing  out  of  the  way  in  his  attentions 
to  his  niece,  and  finally  refused  to  close  his  doors  against  him, 
at  his  son's  instance.  While  this  conversation  was  going  on, 
the  summer  vacation  approached,  and  William  made  arrange- 
ments to  spend  them  with  his  mother. 

One  morning,  William  Dulan  sat  at  his  desk.  His  facq. 
was  pale,  his  spirits  depressed.  He  loved  Alice,  Oh  !  how 
madly.  He  could  not  forego  the  pleasure  of  her  society — jet 
how  was  all  this  to  end  1 — Long  years  must  elapse  before,  if 
ever,  he  could  be  in  a  situation  to  ask  the  hand  of  Alu;e. 
With  his  head  bowed  upon  his  hand,  he  remained  lost  in 
thought. 

"  Mr.  Dulan,  may  our  class  come  up  1  We  know  our  le? 
sons,"  said  a  youthful  voice  at  his  elbow. 


176  THE     I  RISK     E  EF  UOEB. 

•'  Go  to  jour  seats,  boys,"  said  a  rich,  melodious,  Kind  voice  j 
"  I  wish  to  have  a  few  moments'  conversation  with  Mr.  Dulan  j" 
Mid  Dr.  Keene,  the  Principal,  stood  by  his  side. 

'•  My  dear  Dulan,"  said  he,  "you  are  depressed,  but  I  bring 
you  that  which  will  cheer  your  spirits.  I  have  decided  to 
give  up  my  school  here,  into  your  sole  charge,  if  you  will 
accept  it.  I  have  received,  through  the  influence  of  some  of 
my  political  friends,  a  lucrative  and  permanent  appointment 
under  the  government,  the  nature  of  which  I  will  explain  to 
you,  by  and  by.  I  think  of  closing  my  connexion  with  this 
school  about  the  end  of  the  next  term.  What  say  you  ?  Will 
you  be  my  successor  ?" 

Dulan  started  to  his  feet,  seized  both  the  hands  of  his  friend, 
pressed  them  fervently,  and  would  have  thanked  him,  but 
utterance  failed.  Dr.  Keene  insisted  on  his  resuming  his  seat, 
and  then  added : 

"  The  income  of  the  school  amounts  to  twelve  hundred 
Hollars  a  year.  The  school-house,  dwelling-house,  with  its  out- 
buildings, and  numerous  improvements  upon  the  premises,  go 
into  the  bargain.  Yes,  Dulan,  I  have  known  your  secret  long,'' 
said  hj,  smiling  good-humouredly,  "and  sincerely  though 
silently  commiserated  the  difficulties  of  your  position;  and  I 
assure  you,  Dulan,  that  the  greatest  pleasure  I  felt  in  receiving 
in}  appointment,  was  in  the  opportunity  it  gave  me,  of  making 
you  and  Alice  happy.  Stop,  stop,  Dulan,  let  me  talk," 
laughed  Kecne,  as  William  opened  a  battery  of  gratitude  upon 
him.  "  It  is  now  near  the  end  of  July.  I  should  like  to  se^ 
vou  installed  here  on  the  first  of  September.  The  August 
vacation  will  give  you  an  opportunity  of  making  all  your 
arrangements.  I  must  now  leave  you  to  your  labours." 

Every  boy  that  asked  to  go  out,  went  out  that  day.  E\  ery 
buy  that  said  his  tusk  got  praised,  and  every  boy  that  missed 
liis  lesson,  got  blamed.  The  day  was  awfully  tedious  for  all 
Mial,  but  evening  came  at  last,  and  the  school  was  dismissed 
William,  after  sp;udiug  an  uausuolly  long  time  in  tj 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE  177 

rard  alorning,"  hastened  with  a  joy  beaming  countenance  to 
she  home  of  his  Alice.  In  the  full  flow  of  his  joy,  he  was 
met  by  :i  sudden  disappointment.  The  servant  who  met  him 
at  the  door,  informed  him  that  Col.  Delany,  Miss  Raymond, 
>nd  Mr  Delany  had  set  off  for  Richmond,  with  the  intention 
of  staying  a  couple  of  weeks.  Crest-fallen  William  turned 
from  the  door.  This  was  only  a  momentary  disappointment, 
however,  and  soon  his  spirits  rose,  and  he  joyfully  anticipated 
the  time  of  the  Delanys'  return.  They  were  to  be  back  in 
time  for  the  approaching  examination  and  exhibition  at  Bay 
Grove  Academy ;  and  in  preparing  his  pupils  for  this  event, 
William  Dulan  found  ample  employment  for  his  time  and 
thoughts.  I  will  not  weary  you  with  a  description  of  the  ex- 
hibition. It  passed  off"  in  that  school,  pretty  much  as  it  does 
in  others.  The  Delanys  however  had  not  returned  in  time  to 
be  present,  nay,  the  very  last  day  of  William's  stay  had 
dawned,  yet  they  had  not  arrived.  William  had  written  to 
liis  mother  that  he  would  be  home  on  a  stated  day,  and  not 
tven  for  the  delight  of  meeting  the  mistress  of  his  heart,  the 
period  of  whose  return  was  now  uncertain,  would  he  disappoint 
her.  William  was  engaged  in  packing  his  trunk,  when  Dr. 
Keene,  again  the  harbinger  of  good  tidings,  entered  his  room. 

''  My  dear  Dulan."  said  he,  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that 
the  Delanys  have  arrived.  You  will  have  an  opportunity  of 
spending  your  last  evening  with  Alice." 

William  shuffled  his  things  into  his  trunk,  pressed  down  the 
lid,  locked  it,  and  hastily  bidding  his  friend  good  evening,  took 
bis  hat  and  hurried  from  the  house.  Being  arrived  at  Colo- 
nel Delany's,  he  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  and  was 
delighted  to  find  Alice  its?  sole  occupant.  The  undisguised 
joy  with  which  she  received  him,  left  scarcely  a  doubt  upon 
his  mind,  as  to  the  reception  of  his  intended  proposals.  After 
a  few  mutual  inquiries  respecting  health,  friends,  and  so  forth, 
William  took  her  white  hand  in  his,  and  said,  or  attempted  to 
»a — I  know  notwi-it — it  stuck  in  his  throat — and  he  re 


178  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

mained  merely  silent,  holding  the  hand  of  Alice.  There  is 
something  so  extremely  difficult  about  making  a  premeditated 
declaration  of  love.  It  is  much  easier  when  it  can  be  sur- 
prised from  a  man.  William  knew  the  moments  were  very 
precious.  He  knew  that  Colonel  Delany  or  his  son  might  be 
expected  to  enter  at  any  moment,  and  there  would  be  an  end 
of  opportunity  for  a  month,  or  six  weeks  to  come;  yet  there 
he  sat,  holding  her  hand,  the  difficulty  becoming  greater  every 
minute,  while  the  crimson  cheek  of  Alice  burned  with  a  deeper 
blush.  At  length  footsteps  approached.  William  heard  them, 
and  becoming  alarmed,  hastily,  hurriedly,  but  fervently,  and 
passionately,  exclaimed  : 

"Alice,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart,  mind,  and  strength. 
I  love  you  as  we  are  commanded  only  to  love  God.  Dearest 
Alice,  will  you  become  my  wife  ?" 

"  Miss  Raymond,"  said  Richard  Delany,  entering  at  this 
moment;,  "my  father  desires  your  presence  instantly,  in  his 
Btudy,  on  business  of  the  utmost  moment  to  yourself.  Mr. 
Dulan  I  hope  will  excuse  me,  as  we  have  but  just  arrived,  and 
many  matters  crave  my  attention.  Good  evening,  sir ;"  and, 
bowing  haughtily,  he  attended  his  cousin  from  the  room. 
William  Dulan  arose,  and  took  his  hat,  to  go. 

"Farewell,  Mr.  Dulan/'  said  Alice  kindly,  "if  we  should 
not  meet  again,  before  your  departure." 

"  Farewell,  sweet  Alice,"  murmured  William  Dulan,  as  he 
left  the  house.  

It  was  a  glorious  Sabbath  morning  early  in  August.  The 
widow's  cottage  gleamed  in  the  dark  bosom  of  the  wood,  like  a 
gem  in  the  tresses  of  beauty.  Everything  wore  its  brightest 
aspect.  The  windows  of  the  little  parlour  were  open,  and  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  perfume  of  flowers  were  wafted  through 
them.  But  the  little  breakfast  table  with  its  snowy  cloth,  and 
its  one  plate,  cup,  and  saucer,  looked  almost  piteous  from  its 
Bolitud0  Upon  the  clean  white  coverlet  of  the  bed  sat  the 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  179 

widow's  little  black  bonnet  and  shawl,  prayer-book,  and  clean 
pocket-handkerchief,  folded  with  its  spiig  of  lavender.  It  wag 
Communion  Sunday,  and  the  widow  would  not  miss  going  to 
church  on  any  account.  She  despatched  her  breakfast  quick- 
ly— poor  thing,  she  had  not  much  appetite.  She  had  sat  up 
half  the  night  previous,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  William,  but 
Le  had  not  come;  and  a  man  from  the  village,  that  had  called 
at  her  cottage  early  on  this  morning,  had  informed  her  that  the 
luail-stage  had  arrived  on  the  night  previous,  without  any 
passengers.  As  the  stage  would  not  pass  again  for  a  week,  the 
widow  could  not  expect  to  see  or  hear  from  her  son  for  that 
length  of  time.  After  putting  away  her  breakfast  things,  she 
donned  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  taking  her  prayer-book, 
opened  the  door,  to  go  out.  What  a  pleasant  sight  met  her 
eyes.  A. neat  one  horse  carriage,  or  rather  cart,  stood  at  the 
door — her  son  was  just  alighting  from  it.  In  another  instant 
he  had  clasped  his  mother  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh  !  my  William,  my  William,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you," 
exclaimed  the  delighted  mother,  bursting  into  tears.  "  Oh  ! 
but  this  is  so  joyful,  so  unexpected,  dear  William  !  I  looked 
for  you,  indeed,  last  night ;  but,  as  you  did  not  come,  I  gave 
you  up,  unwillingly  enough,  for  a  week.  But  come  in,  darling, 
you've  not  breakfasted,  I  know." 

"  No,  dear  mother,  because  I  wished  to  breakfast  with  you ; 
but  let  me  give  something  to  the  horse,  first,  and  you  sit  in 
the  door,  dear  mother — I  do  not  want  to  lose  sight  of  you  a 
moment,  while  waiting  on  Rosinante." 

"Never  mind,  William,  old  Jake  can  do  that.  Here,  Jake," 
said  she,  as  the  old  servant  approached,  "  take  charge  of  Mas- 
ter William's  horse."  Then  turning  to  William,  she  said— 
"  John  sends  old  Jake  over  every  morning  to  help  me." 

"  Ah  !  How  are  Cousins  John  and  Elizabeth  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  hearty — we  shall  see  them  this  morning  at 
church." 

"1  did  not  come  in  the  stage,  yesterday,  mother/'  said 


1  or>  T  n  i:    IRISH    R  F.  F  u  o  r.  E. 

William,  as  they  took  their  seats  at  the  breakfast  table, 
"  because  I  had  purchased  this  light  wagon  and  horse  for  you 
to  ride  to  church  in,  and  t  came  down  in  it.  I  reached  tho 
river  last  night,  but  could  not  get  across.  The  old  ferryman 
had  gone  to  bod,  and  would  not  rise.  Well !  after  breakfast, 
dear  mother,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  driving  you  to  church 
in  your  own  carriage  !"  added  William,  smiling. 

"  Ah  !  William,  what  a  blessing  you  are  to  me,  my  dear 
son ;  but  it  must  have  taken  the  whole  of  your  quarter's  sa- 
lary, to  buy  this  for  me  ?"  And  she  glanced,  with  pain,  at 
his  rusty  and  thread-bare  suit  of  black,  and  at  his  napless 
hat. 

"  Ah  !  mother,  I  was  selfish  after  all,  and  deserve  no  credit, 
for  I  laid  the  money  out  in  the  way  which  would  give  myself 
the  most  pleasure.  But,  see,  here  is  old  Jake  to  tell  us  the 
carriage  is  ready.  Come,  mother,  I  will  hand  you  in,  and  as 
.we  go  along,  I  will  unfold  to  you  some  excellent  news,  which 
I  am  dying  to  deliver."  So  saying,  he  placed  his  mother 
carefully  in  the  little  carriage,  and  seating  himself  beside  her, 
drove  off,  leaving  old  Jake  in  charge  of  the  house. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,  dear  mother ;  so  we  will  drive 
slowly,  that  we  may  talk  with  more  comfort." 

William  then  proceeded  to  relate,  at  large,  all  that  had  taken 
place  during  his  residence  at  Bay  Grove — not  omitting  his 
love  for  Alice,  of  whom  he  gave  a  glowing  description  ;  nor 
the  bright  prospects,  which  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Keene  opened 
before  him.  Then  he  described  the  beautiful  dwelling,  which 
would  become  vacant  on  the  removal  of  Dr.  Keene's  family, 
which  was  expected  to  take  place  some  time  during  the  coming 
autumn.  To  this  dwelling,  he  intended  to  remove  his  mother, 
and  hoped  to  bear  his  bride. 

To  all  this  the  mother  listened  with  grateful  joy.  At  the 
church,  William  Dulan  met  again  his  cousins,  John  and  Eliza« 
heth,  who  expressed  their  delight  at  the  meeting,  and  insisted 
that  William  and  his  mother  should  return  with  them  to  din- 


THE     IRISH     R  E  F  'J  0  E  K.  1 «  I 

ocr.  This  however,  both  mother  anJ  son  declined,  as  they 
wished  to  spend  the  day  at  home  together. 

William  Dulan  spent  a  month  with  his  mother,  ana  when 
the  moment  arrived  that  was  to  terminate  his  visit,  he  said  to 
ucr — 

"  Now,  dear  mother,  cheer  up !  This  parting  is  so  much 
hetter  than  our  last  parting.  Now  I  am  going  to  prepare  a 
beautiful  home  for  you,  and  when  I  come  at  Christmas,  it  will 
be  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  you  back  with  me." 

The  widow  gave  her  son  a  beaming  look  of  love. 

With  a  "  Heaven  be  with  you,  my  dearest  -mother,''  ariJ 
"  God  bless  you,  my  best  son,"  they  parted.  They  parted  to 
meet  no  more  on  earth. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  mansion  of  Colonel  Delany,  and 
learn  the  nature  of  that  "matter  of  the  utmost  moment  to 
herself,"  that  had  summoned  Alice  so  inopportunely  from  the 
side  of  her  lover. 


On  reaching  the  study  of  her  uncle,  Miss  Raymond  found 
him  in  deep  consultation  with  an  elderly  gentleman  in  black. 
Various  packets  of  papers  were  before  him, — an  open  letter 
was  held  in  his  hand.  He  arose  to  meet  Alice,  as  she  ad- 
vanced into  the  room,  and  taking  her  hand  with  grave  respect, 
said — 

"Lady  Hilden,  permit  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  ac 
cession  to  your  title  and  estates." 

"Sir!  uncle!"  exclaimed  Alice,  gazing  at  him  with  the  ut- 
most astonishment,  scarcely  conscious  whether  she  was  waking 
or  dreaming. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  true.  Your  grandfather — old  Lord 
Hilden — departed  this  life,  on  the  6th  of  last  March.  His 
only  living  son  survived  him  but  a  few  weeks,  and  died  with- 
out issue,  and  the  title  and  estates,  with  a  rent-roll  of  jESOOU 


182  THE     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

per  annum,  has  descended,  in  right  of  your  father,  to  your- 
self !* 

"  I  shall  have  so  much  to  give  to  William  !"  involuntarily 
exclaimed  Alice. 

"  Madam  !"  exclaimed  Colonel  Delany  in  surprise. 

Alice  blushed  violently,  at  having  thought  aloud.  "  Dear 
«tir,"  said  she,  "  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"  Ah,  well,  I  suppose  you  are  a  little  startled  with  this  sud- 
•Icn  news,"  said  the  Colonel,  smiling;  "but  now  it  is  neces- 
sary for  you  to  examine,  with  us,  some  of  these  papers.  "  Ah 
I  crave  your  pardon,  Mr.  Reynard — Lady  Hilden,  this  is  Mr. 
.Reynard,  late  solicitor  to  your  deceased  grandfather,  the 
Baron" 

Great  was  the  excitement  in  the  neighbourhood,  when  it 
was  noised  abroad  that  Alice  Raymond  had  become  a  baroness, 
in  her  own  right,  and  the  possessor  of  a  large  estate  in  Eng- 
land. And  when,  for  the  first  time  since  her  accession  to  her 
new  dignities,  she  appeared  at  church,  in  deep  mourning, 
every  eye  was  turned  upon  her,  and  she  almost  sunk  beneath 
the  gaze  of  so  many  people. 

In  the  height  of  the  "  nine  day's  wonder,"  William  Dulan 
returned,  and  was  greeted  by  the  news,  from  every  quarter. 

"  Oh  !  Alice — lost !  lost !  lost  to  me  for  ever  I"  exclaimed 
he,  in  agony,  as  he  paced,  with  hurried  strides,  up  and  down 
the  floor  of  his  little  room.  "  Oh,  my  mother,  if  it  were  not 
lor  thee,  I  should  pray  that  this  wretched  heart  of  mine  would 
soon  be  stilled  in  death." 

If  any  human  being  will  look  candidly  upon  the  events  of 
his  own  life,  and  the  history  of  his  own  heart,  with  a  view  to 
examine  the  causes  of  suffering,  he  will  be  constrained  to 
admit,  that  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  his  miseries  have 
originated  in  misapprehension,  and  might  have  been  easily 
prevented  or  cured  by  a  little  calm  investigation.  It  was  so 
with  William  Dulan,  who  was  at  this  moment  suffering  the 
most  acute  agony  of  mind  he  evr  felt  in  his  life,  from  a  mis- 


THE     IBISH     REFUGEE.  183 

conception,  a  doubt,  which  a  ten  minutes'  walk  to  the  house 
of  Colonel  Delany,  and  a  ten  minutes'  talk  with  Alice,  would 
have  dissipated  for  ever. 

If  Richard  Delany  was  anxious  before,  to  wed  his  cousin 
foi  love,  he  was  now  half  crazy  to  take  that  step  by  which  both 
love  and  ambition  would  be  gratified  to  the  utmost. 

He  actually  loved  her  ten  times  as  much  as  formerly.  The 
"  beggar"  was  beautiful,  but  the  baroness  was  bewitching ! 
Spurred  on,  then,  he  determined  to  move  heaven,  earth,  and 
the  other  place,  if  necessary,  to  accomplish  his  object.  He 
beset  Lady  Hilden  with  the  most  earnest  prayers,  and  protesta- 
tions, and  entreaties,  reminding  her  that  he  loved  and  wooed 
her  before  the  dawn  of  her  prosperity,  and  appealed  to  her  for 
the  disinterestedness  of  his  passion.  But  all  in  vain.  He 
even  besought  his  father  to  use  his  influence  with  Alice,  in  his 
favour.  Colonel  Delany,  his  objections  being  all  now  removed, 
urged  his  niece,  by  her  affection,  by  her  compassion,  and, 
finally,  after  some  delicate  hesitation,  by  her  gratitude,  to  ac- 
cept the  proffered  hand  of  his  son.  But  Alice  was  steadfast 
in  her  rejection. 

"A  change  had  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  her  dream!" 
Alas,  alas !  that  a  change  of  fortune  should  work  such  a 
change  of  spirit !  Alice  Raymond  was  now  Lady  Hilden. 
Her  once  holy,  loving,  meek  blue  eyes,  were  now  splendid 
with  light  and  joy.  Upon  cheek  and  lip,  once  so  delicately 
blooming,  now  glanced  and  glowed  a  rich,  bright  crimson. 
Her  once  softly  falling  step,  had  become  firm,  elastic,  and 
stately.  "  A  peeress  in  my  own  right,"  was  the  thought  that 
sent  a  spasmodic  joy  to  the  heart  of  Alice.  I  am  sorry  she 
was  not  more  philosophical,  more  exalted,  but  I  cannot  help 
it.  so  it  was;  and  if  Alice  ".put  on  airs,"  it  must  not  be 
charged  upon  her  biographer. 

Time  sped  on.     A  rumour  of  an  approaching  marriage  be- 
tween Mr.  Richard  Dclany  and  Lady  Hilden  was  industriously 
circulated,  and  became  the  general  topic  of  conversation  in  tha 
11 


184  THE     I  R  I  8  II   .  R.  E  F  C  G  E  E. 

neighbourhood.  To  avoid  hearing  it  talked  of,  William  Dnlan 
sedulously  kept  ont  of  company.  He  had  never  seen  Alice 
since  she  became  Lady  Hilden.  Dr.  Keene  had  removed 
with  his  family  from  Bay  Grove,  and  the  principal  govern- 
ment and  emolument  of  the  school  had  devolved  upon  young 
Dulan.  The  Christmas  holidays  were  at  hand,  and  he  resolved 
to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  offered  by  them,  to  re- 
move his  mother  to  Bay  Grove.  On  the  last  evening  of  his 
stay,  something  in  the  circumstance  brought  back  forcibly  to 
his  mind  his  last  conversation  with  Alice — that  conversation 
had  also  taken  place  on  the  eve  of  a  journey ;  and  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas  awakened,  together  with  the  belief  that  he  would 
never  again  have  an  opportunity  of  beholding  her,  irresistibly 
impelled  him  to  seek  an  interview  with  Alice. 

Twilight  was  fast  fading  into  night.  Lady  Hilden  stood 
alone,  gazing  out  from  the  window  of  her  uncle's  drawing- 
room.  She  had  changed  again,  since  we  saw  her  last.  There 
was  something  of  sorrow,  or  bitterness,  in  the  compressed  or 
quivering  lip.  Her  eye  was  bright  as  ever,  but  it  was  the 
brightness  of  the  icicle  glancing  in  the  winter  sun — it  was 
soon  quenched  in  tears,  and,  as  she  gazed  out  upon  the  gloomy 
-mountain,  naked  forest,  and  frozen  lake,  she  murmured,  "  I 
used  to  love  summer  and  day  so  much ;  now — "  [A  servant 
entered  with  lights.  "  Take  them  away,"  said  Alice.  She 
was  obeyed.] — "  the  dark  soul  in  the  dark  scene :  there  is 
almost  repose  in  that  harmony." 

<'  Mr.  Dulan :"  said  the  servant,  reappearing  at  the  door, 
and  William  Dulan  followed  the  announcement. 

"  You  may  bring  in  the  light,  now"  said  Alice. 

"Will  Lady  Hilden  accept  congratulations,  offered  at  so. 
late  a  period  ?"  said  William  Dulan,  with  a  respectful  bow. 

Alice,  who  had  been  startled  out  of  her  self-possession, 
replied  only  by  a  bow. 

"  I  was  about  to  leave  this  neighbourhood  for  a  ^hort  tluicj 
bu\  could  not  do  so  without  calling  to  bid  you  farewell,  feariuy 


THfJ     IRISH     REFUGEE.  185 

you  might  be  gone  to  England  before  I  return  "  William 
Dunlan's  voice  was  beginning  to  quiver ! 

"  I  have  no  present  intention  of  going  to  England." 

"  Not?     Such  a  report  is  rife  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  One  is  not  chargeable  with  the  reports  of  the  neighbour- 
hood." 

Alice  said  this  in  a  peculiar  tone,  as  she  glanced  at  the  sor« 
row-stricken  visage  of  the  young  man. 

A  desultory  conversation  ensued,  after  which  William  Du- 
lan  arose  to  take  his  leave,  which  he  did  in  a  choking,  inau- 
dible voice.  As  he  turned  to  leave  the  room,  his  ghastly  face 
and  unsteady  step  attested,  in  language  not  to  be  misunder- 
stood, the  acuteness  and  intensity  of  his  suffering.  Alice  did 
not  misunderstand  it.  She  uttered  one  word,  in  a  low  and 
trembling  tone : 

"  William  I" 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  A  warm  blush  glowing 
over  bosom,  cheek,  and  brow,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  as 
she  raised  them  to  his  face,  eloquent  with  all  a  maiden  may 
not  speak. 

"  Angel !  I  love  !  I  adore  thee !" — exclaimed  the  youth, 
sinking  at  her  feet. 

"  Love  me,  William,  only  love  me,  and  let  us  both  adore 
the  Being  who  hath  given  us  to  each  other." 

It  was  a  cold  night  on  the  shores  of  the  ice-bound  Rappa- 
hannock.  A  storm  of  wind  and  snow  that  had  been  fiercely 
raging  all  day  long,  at  length  subsided.  At  a  low  cabin, 
which  served  the  three-fold  purposes  of  post-office,  ferry-house, 
and  tavern,  an  old  gray-headed  man  was  nodding  over  a  smoul- 
dering fire.  His  slumbers  were  disturbed  by  the  blast  of  the 
stage  horn  and  wheels  of  the  coach,  which  soon  stopped  before 
the  door. 

'"Vo  travellers  alighted  and  entered  the  cabin.  The  old 
ferryman  arose  to  receive  them. 


186  TH&    IEISH     REFUGEE. 

"  Any  chance  of  crossing,  to-night,  Uncle  Ben?"  inquired 
the  younger  traveller. 

"  He-he !  hardly,  Mr  William ;  the  river  has  been  closed 
for  a  week,"  chuckling  at  the  thought  that  he  should  be  saved 
the  trouble  of  taking  the  coach  across. 

"  Oh  !  of  course,  I  did  not  expect  to  go  on  the  boat,  1  waa 
thinking  of  crossing  on  the  ice." 

"  I  think  that  would  scarcely  be  safe,  Mr.  William;  the 
weather  has  moderated  a  great  deal  since  nightfall,  and  I 
rather  think  the  ice  may  be  weak." 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense  !  fiddle-de-dee  !"  exclaimed  the  other 
traveller,  testily ;  "  do  you  think,  old  driveller,  that  a  few  hours 
of  moderate  weather  could  weaken,  effectually,  the  ice  of  a 
river  that  has  been  hard  frozen  for  a  week  ?  Why,  at  this 
moment  a  coach  might  be  driven  across  with  perfect  safety  !" 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  try  it,  though,  sir,"  said  the  driver, 
who  entered  at  this  moment. 

"  The  gentleman  can  try  it,  if  he  likes,"  continued  the  old 
wan,  with  a  grin,  "  but  I  do  hopes  Mr.  Dulan  won't." 

"  Why,  the  ice  will  certainly  bear  a  foot-passenger  safely 
across,"  smiled  William  Dulan. 

"I  dare  say  it  may;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  wouldn't  try  it. 
Master  William — 'specially  as  it's  a  long,  dark,  slushy  road 
between  here  and  the  widow's." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Ben,  do  you  think  I  am  a  young  chicken,  to 
be  killed  by  wetting  my  feet?"  asked  William,  laughing 
'•  Besides,  at  this  very  moment,  my  good  mother  is  waiting 
for  me,  and  has  a  blazing  fire,  a  pot  of  strong  coffee,  and  a 
bowl  of  oysters,  in  readiness.  I  would  not  disappoint  her,  or 
Uiyself,  for  a  good  deal." 

"  If  i  were  not  for  this  confounded  lameness  in  my  feet,  I 
would  not  stop  at  this  vile  hole,  to-night,"  said  the  elder, 
traveller,  who  was  no  other  than  Richard  Delany,  whom  im- 
perative business  had  called  to  this  part  of  the  country,  and 


THE     IBiSU     RE*t>UEE.  1ST 

who  had  thus  become,  very  reluctantly,  the  travelling  com 
panion  of  William  Dulan. 

"  Nobody  asked  you,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  who 
did  not  seek  popularity. 

William  Dulan,  who,  by  this  time,  had  resumed  his  cloak, 
and  received  a  lighted  lantern  from  the  old  ferryman,  took 
his  way  to  the  river,  accompanied  by  the  latter.  Arrived  at 
its  edge,  he  turned,  shook  hands  with  the  old  man,  and  stopped 
upon  the  ice.  Old  Ben  remained,  with  his  eyes  anxiously 
strained  after  the  light  of  the  lantern,  as  it  was  borne  across 
the  river.  It  was  already  half-way  across — suddenly  a  bieak 
ing  sound,  a  fearful  shriek,  a  quenched  light,  and  all  was  dark 
and  still  upon  the  surface  of  the  ice ;  but  beneath,  a  young 
strong  life  was  battling  fiercely  with  death.  Ah  !  who  can  tell 
the  horrors  of  that  frightful  struggle  in  the  dark,  cold,  ice- 
bound prison  of  the  waters  ? 

The  old  man  turned  away,  aghast  with  horror,  and  his  eyea 
fell  upon  the  countenance  of  Richard  Delany,  which  was  now 
lit  up  with  demoniac  joy,  as  he  muttered  between  his  teeth  : 

"  Good,  good,  good  I     Alice  shall  be  mine  now  !" 


It  was  night  in  the  peaceful  cottage  of  the  widow.  All  the 
little  agremens  her  son  had  pictured,  were  there.  A  little 
round  table,  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth,  stood  in  readiness. 
An  easy  chair  was  turned  with  its  back  to  the  fire,  and  on  it 
a  dressing-gown,  and  before  it  lay  a  pair  of  soft,  warm  slippers. 
The  restless,  joyous,  anxious  mother  was  reading  over,  for  the 
twentieth  time,  her  son's  last  letter,  in  which  he  promised  to 
D«  home,  punctually,  on  that  very  evening.  Hours  flew  on, 
but  he  did  not  come.  At  length,  one  o'clock  struck,  and 
startled  the  widow  from  her  meditative  posture.  "  I  must  go 
to  bed — I  must  not  look  pale  with  watching,  to-morrow,  and 
alarm  my  good  son.  It  is  just  as  it  was  before — he  cannot 
gH  across  the  river,  to-night.  I  shall  see  him  early  to-inor- 


188  ff  H  E     IRISH     REFUGEE. 

row."  Removing  the  things  from  about  the  fire,  and  setting 
the  room  in  the  nicest  order,  the  widow  retired  to  bed. 

She  rose  early  in  the  morning,  to  prepare  a  good  breakfast 
for  her  son.  "  He  shall  have  buckwheat  cakes,  this  moruing  • 
be  is  so  fond  of  them/'  said  she,  as  she  busied  herself  iu 
preparation. 

Everything  was  in  readiness,  yet  William  came  not.  The 
morning  passed  on.  The  mother  grew  impatient. 

"  It  is,  certainly,  high  time  he  was  here  now,"  said  she  j 
"  I  will  go  through  the  woods,  towards  the  high-road,  and  see 
if  he  is  coming,"  and  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she 
set  out.  She  had  just  entered  the  wood,  when  two  advancing 
figures  caught  her  attention.  The  path  was  so  narrow  that 
they  were  walking  one  behind  the  other. 

"  Ah  !  there  he  is — and  John  Dulan  is  with  him,"  exclaimed 
the  mother  as  they  drew  near. 

The  foremost  man  was,  indeed,  John  Dulan,  who  held  out 
his  hand,  as  they  met. 

"  Ah  !  how  do  you  do,  John  ?  How  do  y\m  do  ?  This  is 
to  kind  of  you  !  But,  stand  aside — excuse  me — I  want  to  see 
that  youth  behind  you !"  and  the  widow  brushed  passed  him, 
and  caught  to  her  bosom — old  Ben,  the  ferryman. 

"  My  gracious  !  I  thought  you  were  my  son  !  Dear  me, 
how  absurd !"  exclaimed  the  widow,  releasing  him. 

"  Let  us  go  on  to  the  cottage,  aunt,"  said  John  Dulan, 
sadly. 

"  Yes,  do.  I  am  looking  every  minute  for  William.  Oh, 
you  can  tell  me,  Uncle  Ben — did  he  reach  the  ferry  last 
night  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,"  groaned  the  old  man. 

"  Why,  you  alarm  me  1    Why  didn't  he  come  home,  ther  ?" 

"  He  did  try — he  did  try  !  I  begged  him  not  to — but  he 
would  !  Oh !  dear,  oh  !  dear  !" 

"  Why,  what  in  Heaven's  name;  is  the  matter?  What  has 
happened  ?  Is  my  son  ill  ?" 


THE     IRISH     REFUGEE.  189 

"  Tell  her,  Mr.  Dulan — tell  her  I  I  could  not,  to  savo  37 
life  !" 

The  widow  turned  very  pale. 

"  Where  is  William  ?  Where  is  my  son  ?  Is  he  HI  ?  Ft 
he  ill  P 

"  My  dearest  aunt — do  try  to  compose  yourself!"  said  J./kn 
Dulan,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Where  is  my  son  ?     Where  is  he  f " 

"  You  cannot  see  him  to-day — " 

"  Yet  he  was  at  the  ferry-house,  last  night !  Great  God  ! 
it  cannot  be  !"  cried  th<e  mother,  suddenly  growing  very  pale 
and  faint.  t(  Oh,  us  !  Mercifsl  Providence — such  sorrow  caa- 
not  be  in  store  for  me  ?  Be  is  not — " 

She  could  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  turned  a  look  of 
agonizing  inquiry  on  John  Dulan.  He  did  not  speak. 

"  Answer  !  answer !  answer !"  almost  screamed  the  mother 

John  Dulan  turned  away. 

"  Is  my  son — is  my  son DEAD  ?" 

"  He  is  in  Heaves,  I  trust,"  sobbed  John. 

A  shriek,  the  saost  wild,  shrill,  and  unearthly,  that  ever 
came  from  the  death-throe  of  a  breaking  heart,  arose  upon  the 
air,  and  echoed  through  the  woods,  and  th«  widow  sunk,  faint- 
ing, to  the  ground.  They  raised  her  up — the  blood  was  flow- 
ing in  torrents  from  her  mouth.  They  bore  her  to  the  house, 
and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  John  Dulan  watched  beside  her, 
while  the  old  man  hastened  to  procure  assistance. 

The  life  of  the  widow  was  despaired  of  for  many  weeks. 
Slie  recovered  from  one  fit  of  insensibility,  only  to  relapse  into 
another.  At  length,  however,  she  was  pronounced  out  of 
danger.  But  the  white  hair,  silvered  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  the  strained  eyes,  contracted  brow,  and  shuddering 
form,  marked  the  presence  of  a  scathing  sorrow. 

One  day,  while  lying  in  this  state,  a  travelling  carriage 
•Jrew  up  before  the  door,  and  a  young,  fair  girl,  clad  in  deep 


190  THE     IBISH     REFUGEE. 

mourning,  alighted  and  entered.  Elizabeth,  who  was  watch 
ing  beside  her,  stooped  down  and  whispered  very  low — 

"  The  betrothed  bride  of  your  son." 

The  young  girl  approached  the  bed,  and  taking  the  hand  of 
the  sufferer,  exclaimed — "  Mother,  mother,  you  are  not  alone 
in  your  sorrow !  I  have  come  to  live  or  die  by  you,  as  my 
strength  may  serve !" 

The  widow  opened  her  arms  and  received  her  in  an  embrace. 
They  wept.  The  first  blessed  tears  that  had  relieved  the 
burdened  heart  of  either,  were  shed  together. 

Alice  never  left  her.  When  the  widow  was  sufficiently  re- 
covered, they  went  to  England.  The  best  years  of  the  life  of 
Alice,  were  spent  in  soothing  the  declining  days  of  William 
Dulan's  mother.  The  face  of  Alice  was  the  last  object  her 
eyes  rested  on,  in  life ;  and  the  hands  of  Alice  closed  them  in 
death. 

Alice  never  married ;  but  spent  the  remainder  of  her  life  in 
ministering  to  the  suffering  poor  around  her. 

I  neglected  to  mention  that,  during  the  illness  of  Mrs. 
Dulan,  the  body  of  hor  son  was  found,  and  interred  in  this 
spot,  by  the  request  of  his  mother. 

"  What  becomes  of  the  moral  ?"  you  will  say. 

I  have  told  you  a  true*story.  Had  1  created  these  beings 
from  imagination,  I  should  also  have  judged  them — punished 
the  bad  and  rewarded  the  good.  But  these  people  actually 
iived,  moved,  and  had  their  being  in  the  real  world,  and  have 
r.ow  gone  to  render  in  their  account  to  their  Divine  Creator 
and  Judge.  The  case  of  Good  versus  Evil,  comes  on  in  anothei 
world,  at  another  tribunal,  and,  no  doubt,  will  be  equitably  ad- 


As  I  fear  my  readers  may  be  dying  to  know  what  farther 
became  of  our  cheery  set  of  travellers,  I  may,  on  some  future 
occasion,  gratify  their  laudable  desire  after  knowledge;  only 


THE     IRISH     BEFUQEE.  191 

.'informing  them  at  present,  that  we  did  reach  our  destination 
at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  in  safety,  although  it  was  very  dark 
when  we  passed  down  the  dreaded  Gibbet  Hill  and  forded  the 
dismal  Bloody  Run  Swamp.  That  Aunt  Peggy's  cap  was  not 
mashed  by  Uncle  dive's  hat,  and  that  Miss  Christine  did  not 
put  her  feet  into  Cousin  Kitty's  bandbox,  to  the  demolition  of 
her  bonnet  j  but  that  both  bonnet  and  cap  survived  to  grace 
the  heads  of  their  respective  proprietors.  The  only  mishap 
that  occurred,  dear  reader,  befell  your  obsequious  servitor,  who 
went  to  bed  with  a  sick-headache,  caused  realty  by  her  acute 
sympathy  with  the  misfortunes  of  the  hero  and  heroine  of  our 
aunt's  story,  but  which  Miss  Christine  grossly  attributed  to  a 
hearty  supper  of  oysters  and  soft-crabs,  eate/n  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  which,  of  course,  you  and  I  know,  had  nothing  at  all 
to  do  with  it 


EVELINE     MURRAY: 

OR, 

THE    FINE    FIGURE. 

DAGUERREOTYPED  FROM  LIFE. 

The  body  is  more  than  raiment. — LUKE  xii.  22. 

"  They  laced  her  up,  and  starved  her  down, 
To  make  her  small  and  thin." — HOLMES. 

4  OH  !  Oh  dear  !  I  shall  die — indeed  I  shall ;  I  never  can 
stand  this  boddice  all  the  evening !"  gasped  a  young  girl,  with 
the  tears  squeezed  to  her  eyes.  She  was  being  inducted  into 
Her  first  ball  dress. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  my  love,  you  can,"  persisted  her  mother,  as  she 
»aboured  to  draw  the  hooks  and  eyes  of  the  corsage  together. 
"  you  have  too  stout  a  waist  entirely ;  you  must  bear  this !" 

"  But,  Oh  !  dear  Oh  !  I  can't,  indeed  I  can't.  I  can't  get 
my  breath,"  gasped  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  well !  you  must  do  as  well  as  you  can.  Bear  this 
pressure  a  while,  and  then  it  will  cease  to  feel  uncomfortable. 
This  stout  waist  of  yours  will  give  in  and  yo  down  like,  and 
then  you  will  cease  to  feel  giddy  and  sick ;  you  will  breathe 
easy ;  and  then  you  will  have  a  fine,  round,  slender  waist,  and  a 
beautiful  bust  and  shoulders  !" 

"  But,  Oh,  Oh,  mother  I  I'm  sick,  deadly  sick.  My  head 

(113) 


194  EVELINE    MURRAY;    on, 

is  swimming — I'm  blind — and  the  room  is  turning  round  with 
:ne !" 

"  There  I  smell  this  salts ;  you'll  feel  better  by  and  by,  whet 
your  waist  gives  in  and  goes  down" 

How  little  did  the  mother  know,  or  guess,  that  this  sickness 
and  giddiness  was  the  protest  of  Nature  against  the  violence 
done  her,  and  that  this  giving  in  and  going  dozen  was  tho 
yielding  and  sinking  of  the  vital  organs,  inflicting  present  ri'u- 
cornfort,  and  involving,  if  persisted  in,  future  loss  of  health 
and  life  !  How  should  she  ?  She  was  totally  ignorant  of  the 
laws  of  health  and  life,  and  hugged  her  ignorance.  She  would 
have  been  shocked  at  the  bare  mention  of  a  "  Lecture  on 
Physiology  for  Ladies."  Poor  mother !  she  loved  that  only 
child  of  hers  tenderly.  She  would  not  have  harmed  her,  di- 
rectly or  indirectly,  knowingly,  for  her  own  soul's  salvation. 
She  would  not  suffer  her  to  beat  up  a  bed,  run  up  or  dowu 
stairs,  dip  her  hands  in  water  until  the  chill  was  taken  off,  go 
out,  however  well  wrapped  up,  on  a  windy  day,  or  do  anything 
else  by  which  she  fancied  she  might  fatigue  herself,  worry  her- 
self, or  give  herself  cold;  for  Eveline  was  consumptive,  and 
all  her  sisters  had  died  of  consumption — all  her  fair  sisters, 
beautiful  girls,  with  such  "  fine  figures ;"  but  they  had  died, 
and  Eveline,  the  youngest,  only  was  left ;  and  Eveline  was  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  least  delicate  of  them  all.  And  now, 
poor  mother,  she  was  unknowingly  commencing  the  course 
that  was  to  destroy  the  health  of  her  fair  Eveline,  as  it  had 
destroyed  the  lives  of  all  her  other  lovely  girls. 

"THERE!  my  little  queen!"  said  the  proud  and  affection- 
ate mother,  as  she  succeeded  in  hooking  the  boddice  of  a 
beautiful  tarlton  dress  over  white  satin.  "  There  !  who  would 
not  suffer  a  little  pain  for  the  sake  of  displaying  a  form  like 
that'"  She  led  her  daughter  up  before  a  large  mirror;  and 
truly  the  face  and  figure  reflected  there  might  well  raise  tho 
flush  of  gratified  vanity  upon  the  young  girl's  cheek :  the 
stately  head,  with  its  long  ringlets  of  flashing  gold;  the  child 


THE     FINE    FIGURE.  195 

like,  (he  infantile  face,  with  its  broad,  white  forehead — its 
large,  tender,  dark-blue  eyes ;  the  crimson  flush  on  cheek  and 
lip;  the  arched  neck,  falling  shoulders,  round  bosom,  and 
tupering  waist,  and  the  graceful  sweep  of  the 'dress  from  the 
corsage  down. 

"  Now,  my  darling,  how  do  you  feel  ?"  said  her  mother, 
raising  the  candle  above  her  head,  to  throw  the  most  becoming 
light  upon  her. 

"  I  think  I  feel  better — I  can  bear  it  now,"  smiled  Eveline. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  Clem  Dorsey  will  think  you  very  much 
improved  since  he  went  away  ?" 

Eveline  blushed  to  the  edges  of  her  hair. 

"  Oh  dear,  mother !  I  was  only  fifteen  years  old  when  he 
went  away ;  that  was  two  years  ago.  Do  you  really  think — 
that  he  remembers  me  ?" 

"  Remembers  you,  Eveline  ?"  said  Mrs.  Murray,  with  a  fond, 
quizzing  smile  upon  her  face — "just  as  well  as  you  remember 
him,  little  darling.  Eveline!  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  finally 
come  out  this  winter ;  it  is  only  because  I  know  that  you  would 
like  to  see  Clem  Dorsey  before  he  goes  to  Florida,  that  I  sent 
for  you  from  school,  and  permit  you  to  go  to  this  ball." 

"  Has  he — has  he — has  he ?" 

"  Has  he  called  here  since  his  return  ?  Is  that  what  you 
mean,  my  dear?  Yes,  once.  He  arrived  Tuesday — he  came 
here  Wednesday — he  passed  on  to  Washington  Thursday — 
and  to-night  he  is  expected  here,  to  be  present  at  this  ball 
given  in  his  honour." 

"  Will  he  attend  it,  mother  ?" 

•'<  Don't  say  '  attend,'  my  love,  or  'mother ;'  both  are  vulgar. 
People  '  go  to'  or  <  assist  at'  balls,  concerts,  &c.,  and  /  am 
mamma.' " 

"Then,  mamma,  will  he  'go  to'  this  ball?" 

"  Oh  !  without  doubt,  my  dear.  Now,  love,  sit  down,  acd 
lei  me  put  on  your  slippers." 

Here  vas  another  operation  1 


196  EVELINE    MURRAY;    on, 

Mamma  squeezed,  and  pressed,  and  grew  red  in  the  face ; 
Eveline  winced,  and  shrunk,  and  fretted,  until  at  last,  with 
much  pain  and  trouble,  the  small  foot  was  encased  in  the 
smaller  slipper. 

And  then  the  mother  pressed  the  little  feet  together,  ai.d 
kissed  them. 

"  How  these  little  white  birdies  will  flash  and  twinkle  over 
the  chalked  floor  to-night,  Evay?" 

And  then  she  bugged  up  the  satin-slippered  feet  under  her 
chin,  arose,  put  a  few  finishing  touches  to  Eveline's  toilet,  and 
contemplated  her  child.  Her  child  !  She  was  a  child  herself 
— that  simple-minded,  single-hearted  mother.  Her  whole  life 
lay  in  her  children.  In  their  infancy  she  had  played  with 
them,  frolicked  with  them,  revelled  in  their  infantile  inno- 
cence and  vivacity ;  in  their  childhood,  she  had  shared  their 
.sports  and  their  studies ;  in  their  girlhood,  whether  they  liked 
it  or  not,  she  had  entered  heart  and  soul  into  all  their  fancies, 
flirtations,  rivalries,  loves,  hopes,  and  fears — not  always  judi- 
ciously, however,  though  always  disinterestedly 

Mrs.  Murray  was  the  widow  of  an  army  officer,  and  living 
on  his  half-pay.  She  had  been  the  mother  of  four  beautiful 
girls,  three  of  whom  had  died  between  the  ages  of  eighteen 
and  twenty.  Though  but  forty  years  of  age,  she  was  a  pale, 
emaciated,  withered,  and  faded  woman,  herself  a  victim  to  the 
present  atrocious  mode  of  dress.  She  had  imparted  to  her 
children,  from  their  very  birth,  an  unhealthy  and  imperfect 
organization,  an  aptitude  for  disease,  and  in  her  blind  igno- 
rance, following  up  the  same  destructive  course  with  them  that 
had  destroyed  her  own  health  and  beauty,  she  had  hurried 
them  off,  one  by  one,  into  a  premature  grave,  and  religiously 
bowed  before  what  she  in  her  self-delusion  termed  the  "  will  of 
God"  "The  will  of  God"  is  the  happiness  of  his  children; 
and  they  doubly  err  who  wantonly  or  blindly  bring  calamity 
upon  themselves,  and  then  charge  their  misery  upon  Divine 
Providence 


THE     FINE     FIGURE.  197 

:  Eveline  Murray  was  a  beauty.  Her  person  was  slight,  but 
well  covered  with  soft,  round,  elastic  muscles,  that  turned  the 
curved  line  of  beauty  in  every  graceful  limb  and  motion.  Her 
complexion  was  of  that  fair,  clear,  semi-transparent  hue,  that 
told  at  once  of  perfect  health  and  extreme  delicacy  of  organi- 
zation— a  constitution  sound  but  fragile — one  which  judicious- 
care  might  cultivate  into  robust  health,  or  which  neglect  or 
Dial-treatment  might  quickly  and  easily  undermine  and  break 
down. 

Now,  young  ladies,  before  I  go  on  with  my  story,  I  have  a 
few  words  to  say  to  youj  and  you  must  read  it,  and  not  skip 
it,  for  it  is  the  real  pill,  and  the  story,  though  every  ward 
true,  is  only  the  suyar  coat.  There,  now,  do  not  scrape  iff 
the  sugar,  and  throw  away  the  pill.  It  is  about  your  d»  •;$!>, 
of  course,  that  I  am  going  td  speak.  Presuming  that  e^rtle- 
men  will  take  my  warning  at  the  head  of  this  sketch,  ,  rid  not . 
read  it,  I  will  speak  plainly.  It  is  true  that  some  iuipt'  >vement 
has  been  effected  in  dress.  Corsets  and  stays  are  ao  longer  in 
vogue ;  the  lungs,  at  least  the  upper  portions  u  them,  have 
something  like  fair  play;  but  below  the  lungs  &i-j  rital  organs, 
that  you  may  not  compress  with  impunity ;  «,nd  these  long- 
waisted,  tight,  very  tight,  whaleboned  corsages  are  quite  as 
destructive  to  health,  beauty,  and  life,  through  the  injury  they 
inflict  upon  these  organs,  as  ever  old-fashioned  stays  were, 
through  fatal  mischief  done  to  the  lungs.  To  tell  you  that  by 
persisting  in  this  ultra-fashionable  style  of  dress,  these  hurrid, 
long,  tight  waists,  and  heavy  skirts,  you  will  destroy  your 
health  and  risk  your  life,  would  be  no  argument  at  all  to  ycu. 
You  are  willing  to  lose  health  and  risk  life  for  the  sake  of  a 
fine  figure.  But  suppose  I  tell  you  that  you  will  lose  uot  only 
health,  but  what  you  value  infinitely  more,  bcavfy,  and  ulti- 
mately the  rotundity  and  graceful  contour  of  that  same  "  fine 
figure"  for  which  you  are  willing  to  risk  so  much  health  and 
life  ?  Wby  is  it  that  your  mothers  and  aunts,  who  at  thirty  - 
seven  and  forty  ouyht  to  be  as  much  handsomer  than  you  girls 


198 


EVELINE    MURRAY;    OR, 


of  eighteen  and  twenty,  as  noon  is  brighter  than  morning,  as 
summer  is  more  glorious  than  spring  (for  there  is  an  analogy 
running  through  all  nature),  because  they  are  in  the  glorious 
noon  of  their  day,  the  summer  of  their  year — now,  why  is  it 
n>)t  so?  Why  are  they 

"  Old  in  youth,  and  withered  in  their  prime  ?" 

I  will  tell  you  There  arc  many  reasons — such  as  neglect  ot 
regular  excise,  bathing,  fresh  air,  &c. ;  the  use  of  drying 
and  astringent  drinks,  such  as  strong  tea  and  coffee,  and  stim- 
ulating meats,  &c.  But  more  ruinous  than  any  other  of  these 
sins  of  omission  or  commission  is  the  barbarous  style  of  dresa 
now  in  vogue.  I  do  not  wonder  that  so  many  of  us  go  off 
annually  in  consumption ;  but  I  do  wonder  how  it  is  that  we, 
with  the  same  suicidal  habits,  escape  death.  You  do  not  wish 
to  grow  old  and  ugly,  do  you,  girls  ?  You  who  are  past  twenty 
dread  your  thirtieth  birthday  worse  than  "  plague,  pestilence, 
or  famine,"  don't  you,  girls  ?  There  is  no  need  for  this. 
Abandon  or  considerably  modify  your  present  style  of  dress ; 
that,  and  not  years,  destroys  your  youth,  and  health,  and 
beauty.  It  is  that  abuse  of  yourselves  that  will  make  your 
cheeks  grow  pale,  your  muscles  fall,  your  features  become 
angular.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  will  only  use  yourselves 
well,  your  freshness  of  complexion  and  elasticity  of  muscle 
will  last  half  a  century.  The  freshness  of  complexion  cannot 
be  present  without  a  free  circulation  of  blood ;  the  blood  can- 
not circulate  freely  through  a  compressed  waist,  compressed 
feet,  or  compressed  arms — hence  pale  and  sallow  complexions. 
The  roundness,  the  elasticity,  the  spring  of  your  muscles,  de- 
pend upon  the  free,  regular,  and  healthful  action  of  the  heart, 
lungs,  liver.  &o.  These  vital  organs  cannot  act  healthfully 
while  habitually  compressed  together — hence  fulling  muscles, 
hollow  cheeks,  emaciated  limbs,  &c.  j  hence  disease,  loss  of 
beauty,  premature  old  age,  or  death.  Girls,  do  not  wear  these 
long,  tight  waists,  and  heavy  skirts;  they  are  destructive,  fatal 


THE     PINE     FIG    'RE.  199 

This  is  not  the  place  for  physiological  detail,  eise  I  might  tell 
you  precisely  how  it  acts;  but  "for  your  own  good,"  as  my 
grandmother  used  to  say  when  she  read  me  a  lecturt — for  your 
o\v»  gjod,  I  will  refer  you  to  my  source  of  information.  Read 
Dr.  Fitch's  "  Lectures  on  the  Heart  and  Lungs,"  or  even 
"Calvin  Cutter's  First  Book  of  Physiology  for  Common 
Schools" — read  both,  and  mind  the  rules  laid  out  there  for  the 
preservation  of  health,  and  I  will  guaranty  that  your  fortieth 
birthday  finds  you  in  high  beauty.  Fifty  is  called  the  "  grand 
climacteric"  of  life;  and  so  it  really  should  be.  A  century, 
a  hundred  years,  is  a  round  sum ;  I  always  fancied  that  ten  or 
twenty  years  lopped  off  at  the  last  end  of  it  was  an  unneces- 
sary loss  of  so  much  life.  Let  any  young  person  of  good 
constitution — (yes,  or  of  bad  constitution ;  I  will  not  modify 
it,  for  a  bad  constitution  can  be  made  a  good  one  by  proper 
means  in  youth) — let  any  young  person  set  out  with  the  deter- 
mination that,  with  God's  blessing,  they  will  "  live  out  their 
century"  in  full  health,  and  preserve  their  beauty  unimpaired 
up  to  the  grand  climacteric,  and  I  believe  they  will  be  most 
likely  to  do  it.  The  object  is  a  much  better  one  than  the 
attainment  of  wealth  or  fame,  which  so  many  resolve  and  so 
many  achieve ;  and  the  means  are  much  more  within  your 
reach ;  and  these  means  will  not,  as  in  the  two  other  objects 
of  wealth  or  fame,  destroy,  but  increase  your  present  comfort 
and  cheerfulness. 

To  return  from  this  long  digression  :  Mrs.  Murray  had  just 
finished  Eveline's  toilet,  when  a  servant  entering  the  room 
handed  a  card  to  her. 

"  Lieut.  Clement  Dorsey,  U.  S.  A."  read  the  lady.  "  There, 
now,  Eveline,  darling  !  has  he  forgotten  you  ?  Come,  Eveline, 
let  us  go  down  ;"  and,  taking  her  daughter's  hand,  she  lovingly 
conducted  her  from  the  room. 

They  entered  the  parlour.    A  young  man  in  the  full  uniform 
of  a  lieutenant  in  the  United  States  Army  arose  from  the  sofa 
arid  advanced  to  meet  them. 
12 


200  BVILI  *E    MURRAY;    OH, 

"  All  !  Low  do  you  do,  Mr.  Dorsey  ?"  said  the  lady,  smiling!} 
offering  her  hand  ;  "  this  is  Eveline  " 

"  Ah  !  rny  old  schoolmate,  Eveline  !"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
gayly  shaking  hands  with  her. 

After  a  little  preliminary  conversation,  he  blushingly  ten- 
dered his  services  to  escort  Eveline  to  the  ball  ;  and  the  mo- 
ther, who  expected  no  less,  smilingly  consented. 

When  Eveline  entered  the  ball-room  on  the  arm  of  I  ho 
bandsome  young  officer,  a  buzz  of  admiration  ran  through  the 
crowd.  "  Who  is  she  ?"  "  Who  is  she  ?"  was  whispered  by 
some.  "  Miss  Murray."  "  Miss  Eveline  Murray,"  was  the 
reply  of  those  who  knew  her  by  sight.  "  What  a  magnificent 
girl !"  "  Splendid  girl !"  "  What  a  form  !"  "  What  a  fine 
figure  !"  "  Yes  !  what  a  fine  figure  I"  were  the  comments  of 
several,  murmuied  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  passed;  and,  though 
her  sides  were  aching,  and  her  stomach  sick,  from  compression, 
and  though  her  head  was  dizzy  and  her  eyes  dim,  Eveline  bore 
up,  and  stepped  more  stately  as  she  heard  "  fine  figure,"  "  fine 
figure,"  whispered,  echoed,  and  re-echoed,  through  the  room. 

So  Eveline  was  led  to  her  seat,  and  soon  led  thence  to  the 
head  of  the  quadrille  that  was  forming,  by  the  young  officer. 
Of  course  the  fine  figure  had  to  be  displayed  in  motion.  She 
expected  to  hear  her  dancing  admired — for  at  school  she  was 
Monsieur  Pace-a-way's  most  graceful  pupil — but  in  this  she 
was  disappointed ;  no  one  remarked  her  dancing.  Indeed, 
there  were  several  girls  in  the  room  who  had  not  fine  figures, 
yet  whose  dancing  was  much  more  graceful  than  her  own,  and 
much  more  generally  admired.  In  fact,  she  felt  that  the 
tightness  of  her  corsage,  armholes,  shoes,  &c.,  constrained  the 
full  freedom  of  her  motions  to  a  degree  that  precluded  the 
possibility  of  dancing  well.  What  she  thus  gained  in  the  re- 
putation of  possessing  a  fine,  or  rather  a  fashionable  figure,  she 
lost  iu  estimation  as  a  graceful  dancer.  She  felt  this.  But 
there  was  another  drawback  upon  her  claim  to  general  admira- 
tion tint  she  did  not  feel — it  was  this :  notice  it,  young  ladies, 


THE     PINE     FIGURE.  201 

for  1  have  observed  it  frequently  among  girls.  The  tightness 
of  her  dress,  slightly  affecting  the  stomach  and  head,  spread 
a  pallor  and  a  languor  over  her  features  that  detracted  very 
much  from  the  beauty  of  her  countenance  ;  while,  as  the  even- 
ing progressed,  her  increasing  sense  of  discomfort  manifested 
itself  in  a  fretfulness  of  expression  upon  her  face  that  rendered 
it  \  .nost  repulsive.  The  evening  was  at  last  over,  and  Mr. 
Dorsey  prepared  to  conduct  her  home.  When  they  were  iu 
the  carriage — 

"  You  looked  very  weary,  Eveline ;  I  am  afraid  that  you 
stayed  too  long?" 

"No;"  said  the  fair  girl,  "I  was  not  tired." 

"  You  looked  so." 

"  I  am  not  much  accustomed  to  these  things,"  said  Eveline ; 
for  of  course  she  was  not  going  to  tell  him  that  her  dress  was 
too  tight. 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dorsey,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  Mrs.  Murray's  door.  It  was 
nearly  twelve  o'clock  at  night.  Mr.  Dorsey  handed  Eveliuo 
in,  and  took  his  leave. 

"  And  how  did  my  darling  like  her  first  ball  ?"  inquired  the 
loving  mother,  as  she  set  a  glass  of  hot  negus  before  Eveliiie, 
"  to  keep  her  from  catching  cold." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  it  was  delightful !" 

"  And  Mr.  Murray  ?" 

Eveline  blushed  and  became  silent. 

"  Well !  Never  mind,  darling;  but  the  ball  ?" 

"  Oh  !  it  was  splendid,  mother  !"  exclaimed  Eveline,  who, 
having  loosened  her  dress,  and  breathing  freely,  forgot  her 
miseries.  "  It  was  very  splendid ;  and,  mother,  everybody  ad- 
wired  my  figure  so  much  !" 

"  I  said  so,  my  dear !  I  knew  every  one  must." 

'  Oh  !  yes,  mother,  you  should  have  heard  them  ;  it  would 
have  done  your  heart  good;  they  all  said — every  one  said — that 
I  had  the  finest  figure  in  the  room." 


202  EVELINE     MURRAY;     OR, 

"  And  you  did  not  find  your  dress  too  tight?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  mother,  it  felt  tight,  but  I  supposed  that  that 
wouid  wear  off;  and  mother,  don't  you  think  that  you  could 
take  in  this  dress  a  little  more  under  the  arms,  and  make  it 
ttitl  smaller  f  I  think  I  could  bear  it  still  tighter  !" 

"  Ah  I"  smiled  the  deluded  mother,  "  I  thought  you  would 
be  willing  to  bear  a  little  inconvenience  for  the  sake  of  having 
tie  finest  figure  in  the  room  !" 

"  And  will  you  do  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  love." 

"And  will  you  take  in  aU  my  dresses,  so  that  they  may  all 
fit  like  this — only  smMerf" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  I" 

"This  gives  such  a  beautiful  and  graceful  inward  sweep, 
from  the  armpits  to  the  hips." 

"  Yes,  love ;  and  you  must  wear  heavy  skirts,  for  they  will 
help  to  pull  your  waist  down." 

flow  much  mischief  that  first  ball-dress  had  done — was  still 
to  do !  Eveline  naturally  exclaimed  against  it,  when  first  encased 
in  it,  but  she  had  been  persuaded ;  had  been  screwed  tightly 
up  into  it ;  had  worn  it  to  the  ball ;  had  heard  her  figure 
praised  as  the  finest  in  the  room,  by  the  perverted  taste  of  the 
crowd  j  had  had  her  vanity  stimulated  by  the  flattery :  and 
henceforth  the  fine  figure,  or  rather  the  fashionable  figure,  was 
to  be  kept  peerless  in  its  proportions,  at  any  cost  of  comfort, 
beauty,  or  health ;  and  Eveline's  doom  was  sealed. 

"I  do  not  know  what  can  be  the  matter  with  Eveline, 
Dr.  Drugem.  She  has  no  appetite — no  spirits ;  she  is  pale, 
weak,  and  losing  flesh  every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Murray  to  the 
family  physician,  whom  she  had  called  in  to  prescribe  for  her 
daughter. 

The  doctor  felt  her  pulse,  looked  at  her  tongue,  inquired 
more  particularly  into  her  symptoms,  and  announcing  that  her 
liver  was  affected  (no  wonder,  when  it  had  been  compressed 
so  muc'j),  prescribed  a  compound  pill  of  blue  mass,  quinine, 


THE     FINE     FIO  U  RE.  203 

&c  It  is  strange  that  doctors  never  prescribe  loose  dres^ea 
in  such  cases. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  blue  mass,  &c..  only  produced 
a  temporary  relief.  The  disease  could  not  be  cured  until  the 
cause  was  removed ;  and,  as  long  as  Eveline  screwed  her  waiaf 
up  to  a  span's  circumference,  so  long  continued  the  sick  head- 
aches, nervousness,  and  languor.  Perhaps  the  health  and 
dtrength  of  a  girl  of  stronger  organization  might  have  held  out 
longer,  but  Eveline  was  naturally  frail.  Soon  the  figure,  the 
very  "  fine  figure,"  began  to  lose  its  beautiful  lines  of  beauty, 
its  contour  became  thin  and  angular,  and  its  want  of  round- 
ness had  to  be  supplied  by  padding.  This  was  worse.  The 
weight  of  thickly  padded  corsages  on  the  chest  impeded  her 
breathing,  as  the  tightly  screwed  waist  impeded  the  circula- 
tion;  and  everything  in  health  depends  upon  free  breathing 
and  free  circulation. 

A  year  passed.  Eveline  was  no  longer  beautiful  in  form 
or  feature.  She  was  thin  and  sallow;  and  both  these  defi- 
ciencies were  very  badly  remedied  by  art.  The  medicines  she 
took  only  did  harm,  for  the  reason,  as  I  said,  that  the  cause 
of  her  illness  was  not  removed.  At  last  Eveline  was  unable 
to  go  out  of  an  evening.  Then  in  a  few  months  she  was  con- 
fined to  her  room  during  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  Still, 
with  the  fatuity  of  vanity  and  ignorance,  she  continued,  when- 
ever well  enough  to  go  into  the  parlour,  to  screw  herself  up 
in  her  whaleboned  dresses.  It  was  strange  that  no  one  seemed 
to  suspect  the  cause  of  Eveline's  ill  health — no,  not  even  the 
doctor — or,  if  he  did,  he  certainly  never  mentioned  it  to  hei, 
or  to  her  mother — just  as  now,  there  are  hundreds  of  young 
ladies  in  ill  health,  who  are  physicked  to  death  nearly,  and 
whose  parents  and  physicians  never  think  of  removing  the 
cause  of  the  illness — their  tight  dressing. 

Kveline  was  confined  to  her  bed,  and  every  one  said  that 
she  must  die.  She  was  emaciated  until  she  looked  like  a 
skeleton,  and  had  scarcely  strength  to  raise  her  poor  bird-ciaw 


204  EVELINE     MURRAY;     OR, 

looking  fingers  to  her  head.  Her  mother  was  in  deep  distress. 
She  was  about  to  lose  her  only  child.  Clem  Dorsey  also,  who 
l>ved  Eveline  tenderly,  and  was  hoping  after  a  few  years  to 
make  her  his  wife — Clem  Dorsey  grieved  sincerely.  He  came 
every  day,  and  spent  many  hours  by  the  side  of  Eveline's 
couch.  He  seemed  to  love  to  sit  in  her  gloomy  sick-room 
better  than  to  go  to  all  the  parties  and  balls.  What  were 
balls  and  parties  to  him,  while  his  dearly-loved  Eveline  was 
sick  ?  Every  day  he  brought  her  flowers,  or  fruit,  or,  when 
she  was  able  to  be  amused,  a  pleasant  book.  And  he  would 
sit  by  her  so  patiently,  so  lovingly,  all  day  long — and  some- 
times catch  himself  looking  so  earnestly,  so  sadly,  in  her  poor 
thin  face — her  face  no  longer  pretty  to  any  one  but  him.  He 
Jiought  it  beautiful  because  he  loved  it.  And  how  Eveline 
foved  him !  Surely,  there  never  was  a  heart  won  under  such 
tircumstances. 

"I  shall  pass  away  soon,  dear  Clem,"  she  said  one  day, 
"  but  I  shall  never  leave  you  quite.  Oh  !  often  when  you  are 
alone  in  the  deep  midnight  watch,  I  will  be  with  you;  and  I 
tell  you  beforehand,  dear,  good  Clem,  because  I  want  you  to 
have  faith;  and  when  you  feel  my  presence,  do  not  say  to 
yourself  that  it  is  fancy,  for  it  will  be  Evy.  And  when  you 
are  summoned  hence,  Clem,  /  will  be  the  first  to  welcome  you 
to  the  spirit  world.  Do  not  feel  afraid  to  die,  Clem  ;  for  the 
eyes  that  close  on  the  sick-room  will  instantly  open  on  the 
better  world — on  me."  And  at  such  times  Clem  Dorsey  wou.d 
walk  away  to  the  window  to  conceal  his  agitation. 

"  Love  my  mother,  Clem,"  she  would  say;  "  love  iny  poor 
childless  mother." 

One  day,  Clem  Dorsey  came  to  her  with  a  book  in  his 
kind,  looking  cheerful.  She  raised  her  eyes,  inquiringly — 

•'•'  What  is  the  matter,  Clem  ?" 

"I  have  found  what  I  think  will  restore  you  to  hnlth,  if 
you  will  follow  the  directions." 


THE     FINE     FIGURE.  205 

"Oh  !  some  quack  medicine  !"  said  Eveline,  with  a  faint, 
incredulous  smile. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  dear  Evy,  but  an  honest,  good  book, 
written,  I  think,  by  one  who  had  the  interest  of  bis  icllow 
creatures  at  heart.  It  is  '  Dr.  Fitch's  Lectures  on  the  Heart 
and  Lungs.'  Here  are  cases  described,  in  which  persons  have 
been  ill  for  years  as  you  are — reduced  to  the  point  of  death  — 
some  with  one-half  their  lungs  gone,  who  have  been  restored 
to  health  by  reforming  their  habits  and  following  the  direc- 
tions contained  in  this  book.  Here  are  authentic  letters  to 
prove  it." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  like  all  quacks;  they  all  work  miracles — raise 
the  dead,  you  know." 

"  Yes ;  but,  my  dearest  Evy,  this  is  to  recommend  no  pills, 
potion,  or  lotion — only  a  manner  of  life,  that  will  do  the 
author  of  the  book  no  kind  of  good  if  you  follow  it,  and  no 
fcurm  if  you  don't,  that  I  know  of.  The  means  are  all  in 
four  own  power,  in  your  own  room,  one  might  say." 

Then  Clem  turned  to  some  of  the  lectures,  and  read  them, 
with  all  their  directions.  These  threw  a  flood  of  light  into 
Eveline's  mind,  and  revealed  to  her  the  whole  cause  and  history 
of  her  complaint,  as  she  had  never  understood  it  before — and 
hope  sprung  up  in  her  heart.  Clem  Dorsey  then,  with  his 
beautifully  simple  candour,  said,  "Now,  Evy,  there  are  other 
chapters  you  must  read  alone" — and  he  left  the  book  with 
her. 

From  that  day,  Eveline  made  up  her  mind,  with  God's  help, 
to  get  well.  She  cultivated  free  circulation  of  the  blood,  not 
having  a  single  tight  string  or  belt  anywhere  about  her;  and 
fhe  cultivated  free  breathing — every  day  drawing  as  much 
(iure  air  into  her  lungs  and  inflating  every  part  of  them  as 
much  as  possible  She  grew  to  understand  that  the  restora- 
tion of  her  health  depended  upon  the  expansion  of  that  very 
chest  and  waist  that  had  been  compressed  so  long;  and  just 
in  proportion  as  her  chest  and  waist  expanded,  her  health 


206  EVELINE     MURRAY. 

••eturncd — slowly,  because  a  disease  long  coming  on,  is  apt 
to  be  long  going  off.  Eveline  had  been  a  year  getting  ill,  and 
it  took  her  a  year  to  get  entirely  well.  And,  oh  !  it  was  de- 
lightful to  observe  the  continued  joy  of  her  mother  and  of 
Clem  Dorsey,  in  watching  her  recovery. 

Eveline  is  now  in  high  health.  She  was  married  last  month 
to  Lieutenant  Clement  Dorsey,  U.  S.  A.  The  Rev.  J.  C.  S. 
performed  the  ceremony,  and  Dr.  B.  gave  away  the  bride. 
Eveline  looked  beautifully  in  her  white  satin  and  pearls.  To 
be  sure,  she  could  not  have  spanned  her  waist  with  her  ten 
fingers,  now;  but  then  her  blooming  complexion,  bright  eyes, 
and  the  animation  of  her  spirits,  were  bewitching.  Clem 
Dorsey  looked  very  handsome  in  his  blue  suit,  with  white  satin 
vest  and  stock,  and  white  kid  gloves.  They  live  with  Mrs. 
Murray  yet,  because  Clem  Dorsey  expects  soon  to  be  ordered 
to  go  on  distant  service,  and  Evy  is  to  remain  with  her  mother 
until  his  return.  They  are  very  happy,  and  they  have  reason 
to  be.  Theirs  was  a  true-hearted  affection,  nurtured  in  sick- 
ness and  sorrow,  and  is  likely  to  last  to  the  end  of  time — 
perhaps  to  the  end  of  eternity. 

Now,  if  there  be  one  girl  in  ill  health  who  reads  this,  1 
would  entreat  her  to  restore  her  strength  by  a  reform  in  dress, 
diet,  and  habits.  Instead  of  putting  on  strengthening  plasters, 
put  off  tight-waisted  dresses  and  tight  shoes.  Instead  of  tak- 
ing medicine,  take  exercise;  and  above  all,  instead  of  com- 
pressing the  waist,  expand  it,  by  drawing  in  deep  inspira- 
tions— giving  the  lungs  free  play,  and  plenty  of  good  fresh 
air.  The  lungs  require  pure  cool  air,  as  the  stomach  requires 
pure  cool  water ;  and  if  you  wish  for  full  and  particular  direc- 
tions for  restoring  and  preserving  health  and  beauty,  get  and 
study  Dr.  Fitch's  Lectures  on  the  Htart  and  Lungs. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS; 

OB, 

NEW  YEAR  IN   THE   LITTLE   BOUGH-CAST  HOUSE, 


Who  hath  woe T    Who  hath  sorrow?    Who  hath  contentions?    Who 
hath  babblings? 

Who  hath  wounds  without  cause  ?     Who  hath  redness  of  eyes? 

They  that  tarry  long  at  the  wine:  they  that  go  to  seek  mixed  wine. 

Look  not  thou  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red,  when  it  giveth  hia 
colour  in  the  cup,  when  it  moveth  itself  aright. 

At  the  last  it  biteth  like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder. 

PBOTKBBS  xxiii.  29-32. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

BEAR  with  me,  dear  reader,  for  saying  one  serious  word  in 
the  gay  holidays.  Bear  with  me,  that  I  pause  a  moment  to 
listen,  amid  the  grand  diapason  of  joy,  for  the  under  tone,  the 
low,  unheard  murmur,  the  half-suppressed  wail  of  suffering, 
of  poverty,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  It  is  that  you  may,  amid 
your  rejoicing,  remember  to  relieve  this.  Christmas,  while  .'t 
comes  to  bring  joy  to  all  the  earth,  and  really  does  augment 
the  happiness  of  the  prosperous — Christmas,  the  religious,  tl  & 
jcyous  festival,  absolutely  increases  the  sufferings  of  the  poor. 
It  comes  at  the  season  when  want  is  most  severely  felt  by  them  ; 
it  brings  out  into  the  foreground  the  strongest  points  of  con- 
trast between  "heir  condition  and  yours.  This  contrast  is  felt 

(207) 


208  THE     T£REE     SISTERS. 

in  proportion  to  the  ratio  of  descent  in  circumstances,  frond 
your  state  to  that  of  the  poorest  street  mendicant.  We  all 
know  the  force  of  contrast.  That  between  the  prosperous 
and  the  suffering  is  brought  out  in  greatest  strength  just  at 
this  time.  It  augments  the  trials  of  the  latter — they  cannot 
escape  it — the  rich  and  the  poor  are  too  closely  jumbled  to- 
gether in  locality.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  poor  woman  walk- 
ing through  the  crowded,  lighted,  and  merry  market-house  on 
Christmas  or  New  Year's  Eve  ?  Drawn  by  a  singular  fasci- 
nation to  torture  herself  by  the  sight  of  luxuries  that  taunt 
her  penury,  of  merriment  that  mocks  her  sorrows — ay,  even 
of  necessaries,  of  common  good  bread  and  butter — that  assails 
her  sense  of  smell,  stimulating  and  tantalizing  the  appetite  she 
cannot  satisfy — have  you  seen  her  haggard  cheeks,  her  hungry 
eye  ?  If  you  have  not,  you  have  gone  through  the  market 
with  eyes  so  dazzled  by  the  light,  ears  so  deafened  by  the 
merry  noises,  mind  so  intent  upon  the  purchase  of  your  turkey, 
that  you  have  brushed  and  hustled  past  her  at  every  turn, 
treading  on  her  toes,  and  crowding  her  into  corners  uncon- 
sciously. If  you  had  seen  her,  you  would  have  put  a  "  loaf 
of  bread  and  pound  of  butter"  in  her  empty  hands — she  had  no 
basket  there,  and  for  that  matter,  no  business  there.  The  con- 
trast was  brought  out  into  strong  relief.  How  do  you  think 
it  felt  to  her  ?  You  did  not  feel  it ;  if  you  had,  you  would 
have  given  her  a  chicken  for  her  New  Year's  dinner,  or  lost 
your  appetite  for  your  own.  Have  you  ever  seen,  on  Christ- 
mas or  New  Year's  Eve,  a  poor  little  child  looking  wistfully, 
wishfully  into  the  windows  of  a  toy  or  pastry  cook  shop, 
knowing  that  none  of  all  these  fine  things  are  for  him  ?  You 
will  say,  nonchalantly,  that  "toys  and  confectioneries  are  not 
the  necessaries  of  life — children  can  do  very  well  without 
them," — and  so  they  can,  if  they  never  saw  them,  if  they  never 
saw  other  children  have  them ;  as  it  is,  it  is  a  privation — not 
t'ie  less  keenly  felt,  because  it  is  a  mental  and  not  a  physical 
priva'ion.  It  is  the  reality  of  the  suffering  by  contrast  that  I 


THE     THREE     COTTAGES.  209 

wish  to  show.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  you  gloomy,  but,  to  be 
the  means  of  making  others  'glad.  I  do  not  wish  to  cast  a 
cloud  over  your  sunshine,  but  to  send  a  ray  of  your  sunshino 
to  gild  another's  cloud.  I  want  you  to  "  remember  the  poor," 
emphatically  in  New  Year's  times,  to  "  remember  the  poor  you 
have  always  with  you."  I  want  you,  just  for  the  season,  to 
furget  the  mooted  question  as  to  whether  almsgiving  is  expe- 
dient. "  Assuredly"  it  is  expedient  at  New  Year's  times.  It 
looks  like  a  great  expense  to  make  all  the  poor  neighbourhood 
comfortable,  as  a  whole — but  divided,  it  is  a  mere  trifle — for 
— listen  !  Every  man  and  woman  in  good  circumstances  has 
his  own  or  her  own  particular  acquaintances  among  the  very 
poor — they  may  not  be  daily  companions,  or  very  intimate 
friends — but  you  know  them.  A  very  small  donation,  incon- 
siderable when  counted  with  the  expenses  of  your  year,  would 
make  the  two  or  three  needy  acquaintances  of  each  comfort- 
able for  the  time,  and  equalize  the  enjoyments  of  New  Year, 
and  soften  the  harshness,  abate  the  friction  of  the  temporarily 
exaggerated  contrast.  Now  that  you  have  swallowed  the  pill, 
you  shall  have  the  lump  of  sugar ;  now  that  you  have  dined 
on  solid  beef,  you  shall  have  the  whipped-syllabub;  now  that  you 
have  listened  to  the  little  sermon,  you  shall  have  the  little 
story,  and  if  any  child  should  ask  me  with  childish  naivett— 
"  Is  it  true  ?" — I  can  answer,  every  word  is  true. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    THREE   COTTAGES. 

IT  13  a  feature  in  our  great  sprawling  village  of  Washington 
City,  that  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide  of  business  is  very  great 
The  city,  dur'Qjj  the  session  of  Congress,  being  busy  as  tbi 


210 


THE     THREE     SISTERS. 


busiest  thoroughfares  of  New  York  or  London,  and  in  the  re- 
cess of  Congress  looking  as  desolate  as  Goldsmith's  Deserted 
Village.  This  influence  is  felt  from  the  wholesale  merchant 
down  to  the  plain  needle-woman.  All  classes,  from  the  pro- 
prietors of  hotels  down  to  the  oyster  horn-blowing  boys,  and 
from  the  printer  down  to  the  President,  are  overworked  during 
the  sessions  of  Congress,  and  have  very  little  to  do  in  the  in- 
terval. But  our  business  is  just  now  with  the  most  unobtru- 
sive of  business  people — a  plain  seamstress. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  184-,  that  Mrs.  S ,  the  wife 

of  Judge  S ,  Senator  from  Mississippi,  had,  like  all 

•Southern  and  Western  ladies,  come  to  Washington  with  a 
plenty  of  gold  and  nothing  else — with  the  benevolent  inten- 
tion of  patronizing  our  city  by  buying  everything  from  our 
merchants,  jewellers,  &c..  and  having  everything  made  up  by 
our  milliners,  mantua-makers,  and  seamstresses — and — per- 
haps, as  there  is  a  leaven  of  unrighteousness  in  all  things — • 
perhaps  to  get  the  latest  fashions,  which  our  dress-makers, 
&c.,  had  got  from  the  Eastern  cities,  in  expectation  of  their 

custom.     Well !  Mrs.  S had  come ;  had  accomplished 

an  inconceivable  amount  of  shopping,  and  was  now  at  her  wits' 
ends  to  find  a  mantua-maker  at  leisure  to  make  up  her  splendid 
satins  and  velvets  for  the  season.  Mrs.  Folk's  reception  was 
to  come  on  and  come  off  on  Friday  evening — to  be  followed 

on  Saturday  evening  by  a  ball  at  Madame  B o's.     This 

week  and  next  week  were  to  witness  a  succession  of  brilliant 
parties,  to  be  given  by  the  ladies  of  the  foreign  embassies,  and 
by  the  ladies  of  members  of  the  Cabinet. 

The  Mississippi  belle  was  hurried,  worried,  and  listressed. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  have  a  different  dress  for  each 
one  of  these  different  entertainments,  and  not  a  mantua-maker 
could  she  find  at  leisure,  after  having  driven  over  two-thirds 
of  Washington  City.  It  happened  to  be  during  her  tour 
*mong  the  mantua-makers  that  I  left  my  card  at  her  door. 
She  called  to  see  me  the  next  day,  and  the  cause  of  her  dis- 


THE     THREE     COTTAGES.  211 

tress  broke  through  all  the  rather  stately  ceremony  of  a  Mis- 
sissippi morning  visitor.  I  chanced  to  be  able  to  do  her  and 
another  a  service.  There  are  suburbs  in  Washington  City 
that  strangers  seldom — that  Senators'  ladies  never  visit.  On 
each  a  suburb  I  remembered  to  have  seen  a  dress-maker's  sign 
hung  out  at  the  neatest  little  two-story  framed  house,  with  the 
prettiest  garden  and  yard  that  ever  was  seen.  I  knew  from 
her  remoteness  from  business  localities,  that  the  woman  could 
have  only  a  moderate  supply  of  work.  I  volunteered  to  at- 
tend the  lady  to  her  house.  We  set  off — there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  We  arrived  at  the  cottages. 

I  must  describe  that  locality,  for  it  was  a  "  right  pretty" 
place.  It  is  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Capitol  Hill,  as  it 
gradually  declines  to  the  Anacostia  River,  reaching  it  at  a 
couple  of  miles  distance.  In  summer  it  is  very  beautiful ; 
covered  with  thick,  soft,  green  grass,  and  dappled  over  with 
the  shade  of  a  few  scattered  and  hoary  forest  trees,  and  with 
clumps  of  a  newer  and  spontaneous  growth  of  brush-wood,  and 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  very  small  white  framed  houses, 
with  very  large  gardens.  These  are  generally  the  property  of 
day  labourers  in  the  Navy-Y  ird,  and  other  poor  but  industrious 
and  temperate  men,  who  are  enabled  to  build  them  by  reason 
of  the  low  price  of  lots  in  that  section.  (I  have  known  lots 
sell  there,  at  private  sale,  too,  at  a  cent  and  a  half  a  foot.) 
We,  Mrs.  S and  self,  had  traversed  nearly  half  the  dis- 
tance between  the  summit  of  the  Capitol  Hill  and  the  river, 
going  straight  east,  when  we  came  to  a  street,  or  rather  a 
lane,  for  in  summer  the  middle  of  it  was  green  and  untrodden 
as  the  margin  of  a  brook.  We  turned  up  this  lane,  and  in  all  its 
distance  there  were  but  three  houses.  I  called  them  the  three 
cottages.  They  were  all  in  a  row,  but  not  very  close  together 
— there  was  abundance  of  space  all  around  each.  The  group 
stood  alone,  but  not  solitary ;  there  were  sprinklings  of  whito 
houses  scattered  all  around.  These  three  cottages  were  all 
«mall,  two  stories  high,  painted  white,  with  green  blinds,  and 


212  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

each  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  little  garden  of  its  own.  THe 
house  to  which  we  were  going  was  the  first  one  in  the  row. 
I  had  never  been  there  before.  I  had  only  discovered  it  in 
passing  by.  Now  I  noticed  that  though  all  the  cottages  were 
tieat,  this  was  the  neatest  by  far  of  the  three.  The  paint  of 
the  house  and  of  the  fence  was  white  as  snow,  and  the  brick 
walk  that  led  from  the  gate  up  to  the  door  was  coloured  of  a 
lively  vermillion  red.  Three  or  four  planks  were  laid  across 
the  street,  and  a  mat  actually  laid  outside  the  front  gate,  to 
prevent  visiters  from  bringing  the  least  soil  upon  the  clean 
varnished  bricks  of  the  walk.  We  went  in  and  rapped  at  the 
door.  It  was  opened  by  a  small,  slender  woman,  whose  fair 
skin,  flaxen  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  were  thrown  into  strong  relief 
by  her  widow's  dress  of  black  bombazine.  The  inside  of  tha 
house  was  a  miracle  of  brightness  and  cleanliness,  bright 
brasses,  bright  glasses,  and  bright  colours  in  the  carpet  gleam- 
ing  through  the  shade.  We  passed  into  a  back  room,  where 
the  nice  home-made  carpet,  and  neat  paper  blinds,  spoke 
volumes  in  praise  of  the  little  widow's  industry  and  economy 

Mrs.  S soon  opened  her  business,  and  found  a  very 

willing  agent  in  the  little  widow,  whose  name  we  ascertained 
to  be  Fairfield.  We  soon  concluded  our  visit,  and  returned 
to  "the  city,"  as  the  neighbourhood  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue 
is  called  par  excellence.  I  went  away,  but  did  not  soon  forget 
the  Three  Cottages — they  attracted,  interested  me — with  their 
neatness,  beauty,  and  isolation.  I  had  observed  that  the  cen- 
tral one  was  a  little  shop,  with  jars  of  candy,  tumblers  of  slate- 
pencils,  stacks  of  clay  pipes,  tallpw  candles,  apples,  &c.,  ar- 
ranged in  the  windows,  but  it  appeared  as  yet  too  humble  to 
boast  a  sign-board  with  the  name  of  the  proprietor.  I  saw  no 
more  of  the  cottages,  however,  until  the  spring,  when  being 
hurried  with  work,  I  went  to  seek  the  little  widow  seamstress. 
I  found  the  cottages  snow-white  in  their  green  and  blooming 
gardens,  and  the  little  widow,  neat,  busy,  and  cheerful  as  ever 
Very  tired  with  the  long  walk,  I  sat  an  hour  or  two,  and  sho 


THE     THREE     SISTERS.  21-^ 

being  very  talkative,  gave  me  the  history  of  the  cottages  and 
their  inmates.  The  history  and  its  denouement  was  rather 
remarkable — I  will  give  it  to  you — in  my  own  words,  for  th" 
Bake  ot  condensation. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   THREE   SISTERS. 

MRS.  ANDERSON  had  been  left  a  widow  with  three  daugh- 
ters,— Mary,  aged  twelve,  Ellen,  aged  ten,  and  Lydia,  aged 
two  years.  She  supported  this  little  family  by  carpet-weaving, 
a  trade  in  which  there  was  so  little  competition  as  to  afford 
her  an  abundance  of  work  and  good  prices.  Mrs.  Anderson 
had  sent  her  children  to  a  public  school,  where  they  had  re- 
ceived a  good  common  education.  More  than  this,  she  had 
saved  enough  money  to  purchase  three  lots  upon  that  eastern 
suburb,  where  land  was  then  cheap,  though  expected  to  rise 
in  value.  These  lots  she  designed  as  dowers  to  her  daughters. 
The  eldest  daughter,  Mary,  was  married  at  seventeen,  to  a 
young  carpenter  by  the  name  of  Fairfield.  He  built  the  first 
cottage  in  the  row  upon  the  lot  assigned  to  the  bride.  He 
furnished  it  nicely,  and  the  young  couple  went  to  housekeep- 
ing. 

It  was  during  the  third  year  of  their  marriage,  and  when 
they  were  the  parents  of  two  children,  that  the  second  sister, 
Ellen,  was  wedded  to  a  young  man  in  the  cabinet-making  busi- 
ness This  marriage  was  not  approved  by  the  widowed  mother. 
She  opposed  it  long  and  determinately,  and  only  yielded  at 
last  to  the  tears  and  lamentations  of  her  second  daughter. 
There  was  something  in  Mr.  Bohrer's  face,  expression,  and 
manners,  that  she  did  not  like.  It  impressed  all  observers  un- 
favourably, at  least  all  observers  except  his  maiden-love,  Ellen. 
Yet  he  was  a  handsome,  black-eyed,  laughing  fellow  enough, 


21*  THE     THREE     hISTERS. 

and  perfectly  unimpeachable  in  conduct.  It  was,  perhaps,  th<j 
intangibility  of  the  cause  of  her  prejudice  that  at  last  silenced 
the  mother's  opposition.  Yet  her  instincts  had  not  deceived 
her,  as  the  sequel  of  our  story  will  show.  She  gave  him  her 
daughter,  Ellen,  and  her  dower,  the  lot  adjoining  that  of  the 
Fail-fields.  He  contracted  with  his  brother-in-law  to  build  him 
ft  cottage  upon  it.  When  it  was  finished,  and  soon  after  he 
had  moved  into  it,  the  difficulty  of  procuring  the  thousand-and- 
one  trifles  in  daily  demand  in  housekeeping,  suggested  to 
Bohrer  the  idea  of  opening  a  little  shop  in  that  humble  suburb. 
He  fitted  up  the  front  room  with  shelves,  counter,  &c.,  and 
laid  in  a  small  stock  of  family  groceries,  trimmings,  and,  in 
short,  of  all  things  that  go  to  fill  up  a  small  country  or  suburban 
shop.  He  prospered  in  the  little  business,  getting  the  custom 
of  all  the  day-labourers  around.  It  had  been  very  well  if  he 
had  only  stopped  there.  But  often,  on  a  cold  Saturday  night, 
when  a  labouring  man  would  come  in  shuddering  and  blowing, 
and  meet  there  one  or  two  of  his  neighbours  and  fellow- 
labourers  on  the  same  errand  with  himself,  namely,  with  his 
week's  wages  in  his  pocket  to  lay  in  his  week's  supply  of  family 
groceries,  one  or  another  would  say, 

"  Bother  it,  Bohrer,  why  don't  you  keep  something  to 
drink?" 

Bohrer  had  no  scruples  of  his  own.  It  was  his  wife's  and 
his  inother-in-law's  prejudices  against  the  selling  of  alcohol 
that  influenced  him,  but  he  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  say 
BO. 

"  Oh-h-h  !"  he  would  reply,  in  his  musical  drawl,  "  we  are 
not  fixed  up  yet — we  have  no  conveniences — wait  a  bit." 

At  last  Christmas  approached.  On  Christmas  Eve,  every 
one  of  the  day-labourers  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  as- 
sembled in  the  shop  of  Bohrer.  All  were  merry — merry  as 
they  could  be.  They  needed  not  the  stimulus  of  alcohol. 
Yet  they  fancied  that  something  was  wanting. 

"  Set  fire  to  you,  Bohrer !  why  don't  you  keep  something 


TH«     THREE     SISTERS  215 

fo  drink?"  inquired  one  of  the  men,  with  a  sort  ol  gay  impa- 
tience. "  Haven't  you  got  anything  to  drink?" 

Bohrer  shook  his  head,  laughingly,  but  soon  became  thought- 
ful — seemed  calculating. 

••Just  think  of  it,"  said  another  man,  "  if  you  had  tho 
needful  on  the  spot,  my  family  could  have  some  egg-nog  to- 
morrow ;  but  noic  vie  shall  have  to  do  without  it,  because  we 
cannot  get  the  brandy ;  for  I  do  not  care  enough  about  it  to 
trudge  all  the  way  up  to  Pennsylvania  Avenue  for  it — do  you, 
Smith  ?  Say! — perhaps  if  I  can  get  company,  I  will  go  up 
to  Simms's — will  you  go,  Smith — will  you,  Adama?" 

"  No  !  oh,  no  !"  replied  both  the  men,  "  it  is  too  far — it  is 
too  cold." 

"  Well,  so  it  is,  and  we  are  very  comfortable  here,"  said  tho 
jrst  speaker. 

But  Bohrer  was  leaning  across  the  counter,  with  his  elbow 
resting  upon  it,  with  the  tip  of  his  forefinger  pressed  upon  his 
brow,  in  an  attitude,  and  with  an  expression  of  astute  calcula- 
tion. There  were  from  twelve  to  fifteen  men  in  the  shop,  and 
others  constantly  coming  in  and  going  out,  all  willing  to  take 
i  dram,  all  willing  to  buy  liquor  to  take  home  to  their  families, 
but  none  caring  enough  for  it  yet  to  go  a  mile  up  in  the  city 
for  it.  These  were  his  weekly  customers.  Many  of  them 
were  now  taking  up  their  baskets  to  go  home. 

"  See  here,  friends,"  said  Bohrer,  rousing  himself,  "  I  mean 
\o  have  some  first-rate  spirits  here  in  the  holidays — all  for 
your  convenience — for  the  convenience  of  customers,  you 
know." 

"  Very  well !"  "  That's  you  !"  "  So  do  !"  were  the  various 
exclamations  with  which  this  announcement  was  received  by 
the  merry  set  as  they  hurried  away  from  the  shop. 

Bohrer   was  as   bad  as  his  word.     The   second   day  after 

Christmas  he  had  a  cask  of  brandy  and  one  of  whiskey  brought 

down — and  as  a  part  of  the  same  policy,  took  out  a  license  to 

sjfcii    it   by   the    "  dram."      On  New-Year's  Eve,  when  the 

13 


216  TUB     THREE     S16TEBS. 

labourers  came  to  his  shop,  there  was  no  luck  of  "  Something 
to  drink." 

They  remained  until  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  converting,  or 
rather  perverting,  not  only  the  shop  but  the  little  back  parlour, 
hitherto  sacred  to  Ellen's  privacy,  into  a  scene  of  roystcring 
festivity — they  would  shout  the  Old  Year  out  and  halloo  the 
New  Year  in,  in  glorious  style. 

Elljn  sat  there  by  the  side  of  her  baby's  cradle,  feeling, 
but  too  gentle  to  look,  far  less  to  speak,  disapproval  of  the 
scene.  To  Ellen,  there  was  something  infinitely  solemn  and 
sweet  in  the  last  hours  of  the  old  year, — the  dying  year. 
They  were  the  last  moments  of  an  old  man  who  had  been  a 
kind  benefactor  to  her,  and  she  could  not  be  ungrateful  or  in- 
sensible at  his  death.  That  year,  as  its  first  donation,  at  its 
commencement,  had  given  her  her  husband — that  dear  Wil- 
helin,  or  Willie,  as  she  preferred  to  call  him — and  now  re- 
membering and  tenderly  sensible  of  the  gift,  she  could  not 
rejoice  that  the  giver  was  near  his  end.  That  year,  near  its 
close,  had  laid  upon  her  bosom  her  first  babe — the  little  Elly, 
now  an  infant  of  six  weeks  old,  and  slumbering  in  the  cradle 
by  her  side.  How  could  she  sympathize  with  the  mad  revellers 
whose  orgies  made  terrible  the  lingering  moments  of  the  old 
benefactor?  She  sat  apart,  alone,  and  rendered  the  grateful 
homage  of  a  thoughtful  and  serious  vigil.  Ellen  was  not 
ascetic — no  one  could  look  in  her  earnest,  tender,  gentle  face, 
and  accuse  her  of  asceticism,  yet  to  her  the  last  moments  of 
the  Old  Year  seemed  a  time  suggestive  of  devotion  rather  than 
of  revelry.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  opening  of  the  shop 
«]oor  and  the  ringing  of  the  bell  attached  to  it,  announced  a 
sustomer.  Bohrer  went  forward,  exclaiming, 

"  It  is  Frank  Miller,"  and  soon  Ellen  heard  a  cheerful, 
youthful  voice  sing  out — 

''Just  come  this  evening — yes!  just  come — been  to  see 
Lydia,  and  found  mother  in  a  desperate  fix  for  a  pound  of 
*andles — it  was  too  late  for  her  or  Lydia  to  venture  out.  par. 


THE     THREE     SISTERS.  217 

t^ularly  when  the  streets  are  in  such  an  uproar  as  they  are 
in  to-night,  and  so  I  volunteered  to  do  their  errand." 

"  Well !  come  in — come  in,"  replied  Bohrer,  "  we  are  keep- 
ing the  season,  you  see !  walk  forward." 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  thank  you,  I  must  hurry  immediately  back." 

"  Ay  !  but  step  into  the  back  room  a  moment !  We  havo 
some  prime  egg-nog — come,  come  !" 

"  Well-—  indeed  I  am  pressed  for  time." 

"  Nonsense  !  pressed  for  time  with  a  new  instalment  of  time 
within  a  few  hours  of  arriving.  Come  in,  and  see  Ellen  and 
the  baby." 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  see  that  baby  and  to  speak  to  Ellen 
a  minute.  I  do  not  care  if  I  do  step  in  for  just  a  moment," 
and  the  young  man  came  forward  into  the  little  back  room, 
where  he  was  greeted  by  a  half  score  of  acquaintances. 
Shaking  hands  and  passing  laughingly  through  them  all,  ho 
made  his  way  to  Ellen's  side  and  sat  down  by  her.  She  re- 
ceived him  smilingly.  Well  she  might !  he  was  handsome, 
frank,  affectionate,  and  the  betrothed  of  her  youngest  and 
favourite  sister  Lydia.  A  little  too  impulsive  Ellen  though* 
— a  little  too  forgetful  of  past  experiences,  and  too  reckless 
of  future  consequences  when  tempted  by  the  enjoyment  of  the 
moment — a  little  too  ready  to  enter  into  any  fun,  or  take  part 
in  any  frolic  that  might  be  going  forward,  but  so  gay,  so  good- 
humoured,  so  disinterested  with  it  all,  that  it  seemed  impossi 
ble  to  blame  him.  He  was  at  this  time  employed  at  a  small 
salary  as  clerk  on  board  of  one  of  the  steamboats  that  run 
fr.itn  Washington  City  to  Norfolk.  The  boat  had  just  got  up, 
aud  he  had  just  arrived,  as  he  announced. 

"  Come !  take  a  drink,  Frank  !  it  will  do  you  good  !"  ex- 
claimed IJohrer,  bailing  out  a  large  glass  of  egg-nog  aud  hand* 
ing  it  to  him. 

He  received  it,  and  passing  it  untouched  to  Ellen,  saicl 
with  a  charming  blending  of  affection  and  gallantry, 


218  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

"  Ellen  \  come — place  your  lips  to  the  brim — consecrate 
the  draught  for  me." 

"  No,  Frank  j  I  cannot." 

"  What !  don't  you  like  it  ?'' 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  like  it  or  not — I  never  tasted 
it." 

"  Well,  then  try — come  !" 

"  No." 

"  Why  not,  Ellen?  are  you  a  total  abstinence  woman  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Taken  the  pledge  and  all  that  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  taken  no  pledge,  because  I  have  not  fallen  in 
the  way  of  taking  pledges  j  but  mother  never  was  accustomed 
to  use  any  kind  of  spirits  in  her  family,  an.d  so  we  all  rather 
dislike  the  taste  and  smell,  or  rather  we  dislike  the  smell,  and 
we  think  we  should  dislike  the  taste." 

"  Ly<Ha  doesn't — begging  your  pardon — Lydia  has  more 
sense  than  any  of  you  girls — she  knows  what's  good.  Why, 
the  other  night  when  our  boat  was  out — you  know  when  [ 
took  Lydia  to  hear  the  Ethiopian  serenaders.  When  we  came 
out  it  was  so  cold.  It  was  so  cold  and  we  had  so  far  to  walk, 
that  as  it  was  but  ten  o'clock,  I  took  her  into  Jones's  confec- 
tionery, and  into  the  back  parlour  where  it  was  warm  and  com- 
fortable ;  and  I  ordered  a  couple  of  glasses  of  noyau  and  some 
cakes.  The  whole  thing  was  perfectly  new  to  the  little  crea- 
ture, and  she  enjoyed  it,  /tell  you.  We  spent  an  hour  there. 
Oh,  it  was  nice,  cozy  !  the  bright  coal-fire  glowing  through  the 
polished  steel  bars  of  the  grate,  and  the  soft  cushionery  carpet, 
and  the  spring  elastic  chairs  covered  with  red  cut  velvet,  and 
the  pictures  and  the  mirrors.  Little  Lydia  felt  herself  in  a 
palace.  She  examined  all  the  pictures — looked  at  herself  in 
all  the  mirrors — sat  down  in  all  the  chairs  in  succession  to 
try  them,  and  found  each  one  more  comfortable  or  luxurious 
than  all  the  rest.  IIfcr  verdant  pleasure  was  perfectly  refresh. 
ing  to  i»  «,  who  am  quite  accustomed  to  thuce  things,"  said  the 


THE     THREE     SISTERS.  219 

youth,  with  the  sclf-sa',isfied  air  of  a  man  who  had  seen  and 
been  satiated  with  life,  and  who  was  inclined  to  patronize 
young  people. 

Ellen  was  looking  at  him  and  listening  to  his  words  with  an 
air  of  grave  rebuke.  But  he  did  not  perceive  her  disapproval. 
Ellen's  serious  disapprobation  was  so  gently,  so  delicately 
manifested,  that  none  but  a  very  close  observer  could  sec  it, 
none  but  a  very  sensitive  person  feel  it. 

"  And  how,"  she  gently  inquired,  "  did  Lydia  look  back 
upon  this  evening,  after  the  excitement — for  it  seems  to  mo 
that  her  pleasure  was  excitement — was  over?" 

"  /te-lightedly  !"  laughed  the  young  man,  with  great  glee. 
'•'  It  was  fun  alive  to  see  the  little  one.  Every  time  I  have 
taken  her  out  of  an  evening  since,  whether  to  meetings,  or 
lectures,  or  exhibitions  or  what  not — in  coming  home  Lydia 
has  surely  become  hungry  or  thirsty,  or  cold  or  tired  !  always! 
And  I  have  laughed  in  my  sleeve  and  taken  her  into  a  con- 
fectioner's — and,  by  the  way,  I  wish  we  had  her  here  to-night, 
site  would  help  me  drink  this,"  said  Frank,  as  he  sipped  his 
egg-nog. 

"  But,  Frank,"  said  Ellen,  speaking  very  gently,  in  a  low 
tone — speaking  evidently  with  reluctance — "  does  not  the  idea 
of  a  young  girl  loving  wine  and  cordial  strike  you  unpleasant- 
ly ? — does  it  not  revolt  you,  as  something — "  she  hesitated 
for  a  softer,  kinder  word,  but  finding  none  went  on  to  say — 
"  does  it  not  revolt  you  as  something  coarse  and  sensual  ?" 

"  Now,  Ellen,  see  here — now  don't — I  can't  listen  to 
'coarse,'  and  that  other  worse  word,  put  in  the  same  sentence 
with  Lydia,  much  less  applied  as  adjectives  to  anything  she 
gays,  does,  or  thinks!  Lydia  is  my  business;  I  do  all  I  can 
fir  her  now,  but  when  we  are  married,  please  God,  I  will  do 
everything  for  her — she  shall  have/us£  exactly  everything  she 
wants!  let  it  be  what  it  will.  Bless  your  soul,  I  want  Lydia 
as  a  medium  of  happiness;  the  only  way  I  can  enjoy  life  in 
it«  highest  is  through  her  \  To  see  Lydia's  bright,  bright 


220  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

eyes,  shining  down  on  the  glass  of  wine  at  her  lips— shining 
down  on  it  as  the  sun  shines  down  upon  a  clear  lake — lighting 
it  up  !  To  see  Lydia  eat  a  Ion-Ion,  as  if  her  fresh,  rosy  lips 
Lad  a  separate  consciousness  !  To  see  Lydia  sink  into  an  easy 
chair,  with  such  beautiful  abandonment !  She  enters  into  all 
these  little  treats  with  such  intense  relish  !" 

"  Lydia  has  been  unaccustomed  to  luxuries.  Our  mother 
brought  up  all  her  children  plainly.  These  things  are  new  to 
ber,  and  she  is  very  young — that  is  her  only  excuse." 

"  '  Excuse  !'  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  so,  Ellen  ?  She 
needs  no  excuse  !  but  there  !  it  is  eleven  o'clock,  and  here  have 
[  been,  forgetting  that  Lydia  and  her  mother  are  sitting  at 
home  in  darkness,  waiting  for  the  candles,  while  I  have  been 
dawdling  my  time  away,  and  keeping  you  up  too,  I  dare  say." 

"  No,  you  are  not  keeping  me  up,  I  intend  to  stay  up  till 
these  people  are  shamed  into  going  home ;  I  must  do  that;  I 
cannot  leave  Wilhelm  h,ere  to  tempt  others,  and  be  tempted 
himself  into  any  greater  excesses.  But  you,  Frank,  you  must 
go  home,  you  are  very  thoughtless." 

"Thoughtless !  so  I  am,  so  I  intend  to  be;  I  never  saw  the 
use  of  being  thoughtful,  except  to  turn  the  hair  gray.  But 
how  have  I  been  thoughtless,  I  pray  ?" 

"  Why,  here  you  have  set,  keeping  your  sweetheart  out  of 
the  necessaries  of  life,  while  very  sincerely  hearing  yourself 
talk  of  providing  her  with  all  the  luxuries — that  is  like  you, 
Frank — you  are  a  very  earnest  promiser,  but  a  very  uncertain 
performer." 

In  reply  to  this,  Frank  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  baby 
in  the  cradle,  and  ran  from  the  room,  pausing  in  the  shop  to 
take  a  second  and  a  hasty  glass  of  egg-nog. 


GOING     TO     HOUSEKEEPING.  221 


CHAPTER  IV 

GOING     TO     HOUSEKEEPING 

I'.VERY  one  loved  Frank  Miller — it  was  impossible  not  to 
love  him.  Every  one,  that  is  of  his  own  neighbourhood,  took 
an  interest  in  his  approaching  marriage.  It  was  to  come  off 
early  in  the  year,  and  the  young  couple  were  to  reside  with 
the  mother  of  the  bride  for  a  few  months,  until  their  house, 
the  third  one  in  the  row,  could  be  completed  and  furnished 
for  their  reception.  As  this  was  the  marriage  of  herjoungest, 
her  favourite,  and  her  last  remaining  daughter,  the  old  lady 
determined  to  go  to  the  expense  of  a  wedding,  and  invite  all 
the  neighbourhood  to  it.  The  unpretending  trousseau  of  the 
bride  had  been  ready  a  month  before,  and  so  the  last  week 
previous  to  the  marriage  had  been  devoted  by  the  little  widow 
to  preparation  for  her  guests.  The  day  previous  to  the  wed- 
ding she  was  very  busy  frosting  cakes  and  shedding  tears ;  yet 
with  a  mother's  generous  self-devotion,  concealing,  or  trying 
to  conceal  from  the  little  bride  elect,  the  secret  pain  she  waa 
suffering  at  the  thought  of  giving  up  her  last  and  best  beloved 
daughter,  her  baby,  her  pet,  her  spoiled  child.  She  dodged 
and  avoided  Lydia  as  much  as  she  could,  and  dropped  her 
quiet  tears  into  the  baskets  of  fruit  or  plates  of  cake.  A  re- 
morseful tenderness  weighed  down  Lydia's  eyelids  also,  as  she 
imsied  herself  in  her  chamber  with  the  smaller  details  of  her 
dress,  and  sometimes  she  would  trip  down  stairs  to  embrace 
her  mother,  and  to  assure  her  that  no  change  of  her  own  rela- 
tions should  or  ever  could  abate  her  love  for  "  mother." 

"  But  will  you  love  me  as  well  afterwards,  mother  ?  Won't 
you  soon  grow  to  look  upon  your  child  as  an  old  married 
woman,  absorbed  in  common-place  family  cares,  who  does  not 
Deed  your  earn  and  your  petting  ?" 


222  THE     THREE      SISTERS. 

'  Ah  !  but  my  baby,  Frank  will  love  and  pet  you,  and  then 
you  will  not  care  for  my  petting." 

This  was  said  in  a  voice  of  assumed  playfulness,  but  the 
under  tone  of  sadness  moaned  up  through  it. 

"  Mother  !  sit  down  and  take  me  in  your  lap.  Dear  mother  ! 
no  one  can  supply  your  place  to  me — no  one  can  fill  your 
chamber  in  my  heart,  or  crowd  you  out  of  it,  or  come  near  it, 
mother!  it  is  so  sacred!  It  is  the  chapel  of  my  heart — my 
mother  !  Stroke  my  face,  mother — play  with  my  hair — kiss 
me — mother,  kiss  me  !  never  mind  the  cakes  to-day,  mother — 
do,  never  mind  the  cakes,  mother,  for  once.  Love  me,  mother 
— my  heart  is  nearly  breaking  just  now !  I  wish  I  were  not 
a  woman,  with  a  woman's  wants  and  responsibilities.  I  wish 
I  could  always  have  been  your  baby,  mother."  And  the  fair 
bride  burst  into  tears.  Her  mother  rocked  and  soothed  her, 
just  as  though  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and  spoke  to  her 
cheerfully. 

"  Frank  is  a  good,  a  very  good  young  man,  and  he  loves 
you,  darling." 

"  Ah,  mother,  I  do  not  find  fault  with  Frank — he  is  good 
— of  course  he  is — but,  mother,  there  is  a  something,  a  nurs- 
ing tenderness  in  your  affection  that  I  do  not  find  in  any  other. 
Frank  loves  me  as  a  boy  loves  a  girl,  with  more  fun  and 
frolic  than  tenderness,  and  you,  mother  !  oh,  won't  you  be  so 
lonesome  when  I  am  gone  ?" 

"  My  darling !"  said  the  mother,  gently,  "  this  is  morbid  in 
both  of  us — this  is  very  weak,  and  we  must  not  give  way  to 
it — no,  I  did  not  say  our  love  was  weak,  our  caresses  were 
weak,  my  nursing  you  was  weak,"  murmured  she,  as  Lydia 
made  a  movement  to  leave  her  arms;  "  I  said,  my  dear,  this 
crying  is  wrong,  ungrateful  to  Providence — we  must  not  in- 
dulge in  sentimentality — mother  must  try  to  remember  that 
she  gains  another  son,  not  loses  her  last  daughter." 

"Oh!  mother,  but  why  cannot  we  both,  Frank,  and  I,  live 
with  you,  or  you  with  us?  Why  should  a  daughter,  when 


GOING     TO     HOUSEKEEPING. 

she  is  married,  have  the  cloud  of  separation  from  her  mothei 
thrown  over  the  sunshine  of  her  bridehood  ?  Sons  don't  mind 
it,  but  daughters  do — oh  !  so  much  !  and  it  is  such  a  useless 
shadow  !  Why  cannot  people  live  in  great  houses  big  enough 
for  two  or  three  families,  and  when  their  daughters  are  married 
keep  them  still  at  home — and  when  their  sons  are  married  let 
them  go  live  with  the  parents  of  their  brides ;  it  seems  to  me, 
it  would  be  so  much  better  than  to  have  these  cruel  partings. 
There  is  seldom  on  earth  more  than  three  generations  at  a 
time,  and  it  does  seem  to  me  that  one  large  house  should  be 
big  enough  to  hold  them.  It  would  be  so  nice,  the  grand- 
parents, and  the  children  and  grandchildren,  all  united  together 
in  a  band  of  household  love.  So  beautiful !  Oh  !  would  it 
not  be  ?" 

"  My  baby,  you  talk  like  a  young  girl." 

"  But  would  it  not  be,  now  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so — sometimes  I  think  so,  but  maybe  I  am  only 
selfish  when  I  think  I  am  right." 

"  Here  are  you,  poor,  dear,  lonely  mother,  who  have  toiled 
through  all  your  best  days,  labouring  hard  to  raise  your  chil- 
dren, to  see  them  go,  one  after  another,  and  to  be  left  alone  in 
your  age.  Mother,  listen  !  Frank  is  young,  and  I  am  young ; 
it  will  not  break  our  hearts,  either,  if  we  are  not  married  ;  if 
now  you  repent  your  consent  to  part  with  me,  you  may  now 
recall  it !  Mother,  indeed  I  am  in  earnest.  You  ought  to 
have  one  daughter  left  to  you.  I  never  felt  it  before,  but  you 
ovylit — ought.  It  is  only  justice — bare  justice !  Tell  me, 
mother,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  leave  you,  /  won't  leave  you. 
I  won't  get  married ;  poor  Frank — indeed  I  won't,  poor,  dear 
mother !" 

"  My  little  one,  you  would  cut  your  heart  in  two,  and  give 
me  and  Franic  each  a  half,  if  you  thought  it  would  make  ti» 
happy,  I  have  no  doubt  in  thf  world !" 

"Shall  I,  mother?" 


224  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

'•'  Cut  your  heart  in  two  ?"  asked  the  widow,  playfully,  to 
.luiko  her  cheerful. 

"  La,  no,  mother  !"  smiled  Lydia,  through  her  tears ;  tf  I 
ruoan  shall  I  not  leave  you — shall  I  uot  get  married  ?" 

"  My  dear,  you  make  me  a  proposition  that  both  of  us 
would  regret  next  week  if  I  accepted  it  to-night — no,  love, 
you  must  be  married — never  mind  mother's  loneliness.  She 
will  come  over  and  take  many  a  soeiable  cup  of  tea  with  you, 
.nd  you  and  Frank  shall  come  to  her  often." 

"Oh!  yes,  mother,"  exclaimed  the  childish  bride,  her 
thoughts  springing  off  into  gleeful  anticipation,  "and  you  shall 
nave  such  a  nice  little  bed-room  when  you  want  to  stay  all 
night — it  shall  be  called  '  mother's  room.'  " 

"  There !  now  go,  my  darling,  and  finish  trimming  your 
dress,  while  I  frost  these  cakes,  and  mind,  come  down  to  tea 
with  a  pleasant  smile.  Frank  will  be  here  to  tea,  you  know  !" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  so  he  will !"  exclaimed  Lydia,  kissing  her  mother, 
and  tripping  away  up  stairs.  The  widow  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  hands  a  moment,  in  silent  prayer,  and  rising,  went 
about  her  work. 

The  next  evening  the  wedding  came  off.  The  widow's  little 
sitting-room  and  parlour  were  filled  to  overflowing  with  guests. 

The  bride  was  beautiful,  as  all  brides  are  stereotyped  (not 
daguerreotyped — that  is  another  matter)  to  be.  The  bride- 
groom was  happy,  and  awkward  to  the  last  possible  degree,  so 
that  Frank  was  in  danger  of  losing  his  character  for  gay  in- 
difference. The  company  were  cheerful,  and  enjoyed  them- 
selves as  only  working  people  can  enjoy  a  festival.  The  re- 
freshments were  abundant.  The  old  lady  had  provided  tea 
and  coffee,  but  no  wine  or  cordial.  This  deficiency  was, 
however,  supplied  in  the  course  of  the  evening  by  Bohrer, 
who,  judging  his  mother-in-law  by  himself,  fancied  that  the 
only  reason  of  its  absence  must  arise  from  her  parsimony. 
Exhilarated  by  the  occasion,  the  company,  lights,  and  good 
sheer,  he  caught  a  generous  fit,  and  manifested  it  in  his  own 


THE     LITTLE     HO  ME.  225 

peculiar  manner — by  running  "over  to  the  shop"  for  a  demi- 
john of  cordial.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  Mrs.  Anderson 
bad  an  opportunity  of  perceiving  for  the  first  time,  a  weak 
tendency  in  her  new  son-in-law — a  somewhat  alarming  love 
of  alcoholic  stimulus. 


CIIAPTEE  V. 

THE     LITTLE     HOME. 

THE  young  couple  passed  the  winter  months  with  the  mother 
of  the  bride.  As  soon  as  the  spring  opened,  Frank  engaged 
his  brother-in  law,  Mr.  Fairfield,  to  build  for  them  a  small, 
two-storied  framed  cottage,  upon  the  third  and  last  lot  in  the 
row.  This  cottage  was  upon  the  same  simple  plan  of  the 
other  two,  with  its  neatly  laid  out  garden  behind,  and  itp 
flower  yard  in  front.  All  the  leisure  time  of  the  young  bride 
and  bridegroom  were  now  bestowed  in  laying  out  and  planting 
beds  of  kitchen  vegetables  or  parterres  of  flowers,  so  that 
about  the  time  at  which  the  house  was  completed,  the  flowera 
and  the  table  vegetables  were  beginning  to  grow. 

Mrs.  Anderson  had  announced  to  Frank  her  intention  to 
furnish  their  house;  and  when  it  was  finished  she  set  out  with 
Lydia  to  choose  the  furniture.  The  mother's  devotion,  and 
the  daughter's  thoughtlessness,  were  made  manifest  that  day. 
They  went  first  to  "  Griggs's,"  and  inquiring  first  for  chamber 
furniture,  were  shown  complete  sets  of  all  prices,  from  com- 
mon, plain  stained  pine,  to  the  most  highly  finished  rose-wood. 
But  one  set  struck  Lydia's  fancy.  Very  beautiful  it  was 
indeed,  and  certainly  very  cheap,  yet  too  costly  for  their  cir- 
cumstances. The  set  consisted  of  a  French  bedstead,  bureau 
with  swinging  mirror,  wardrobe,  wash-stand,  cabinet  and  chairs,. 


226  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

all  pine,  but  painted  pure  white,  and  so  highly  varnished  as  ti 
resemble  porcelain. 

"  Oh,  mother,  look  !  this  is  beautiful !  this  is  lovely !  do 
get  this  !  What  is  the  price  of  this,  Mr.  Griggs  ?" 

"  Eighty  dollars  for  the  whole  set,  madam — very  low — we 
make  next  to  nothing  by  them." 

"  That  seems  a  great  deal  of  money,  but  indeed  they  are 
worth  it — mother  !" 

"Well,  my  dear?" 

"I  like  this  white  set — come,"  said  she,  drawing  her  mother 
away  into  a  corner,  "  I  do  want  that  set  so  much,  mother — 
they  will  look  so  beautiful,  all  pure  white  as  they  are,  arranged 
in  my  chamber,  with  a  straw  matting  on  the  floor,  and  with 
white  dimity  curtains  at  the  windows,  and  a  white  Marseilles 
counterpane  on  the  bed  by  this,  mother !" 

"  My  dear,  it  will  cost  very  much  more  than  A  had  calcu- 
lated to  spend  upon  chamber  furniture." 

"  Oh  !  well,  dear  mother,  just  you  buy  this  and  no  more  ; 
let  Frank  purchase  the  rest  of  the  things  needful." 

"  But,  my  love,  Frank  has  already  contracted  debt  for  lum- 
ber to  build  your  home,  and  he  owes,  also,  for  the  work. 
Frank  must  not  be  called  upon  to  spend  much !" 

"  Oh,  but,  mother,  I  will  economize,  indeed  I  will." 

"  My  dear,  I  have  tried  all  that,  and  I  know  by  bitter  ex- 
perience how  it  works.  You  can  never  make  up  by  after 
economy  for  past  extravagant  expenditure.  My  dear,  take 
this  along  with  you  as  a  safe  rule.  Always,  if  possible,  econo- 
mize Lrfore  an  unusual  expenditure — attempts  at  retrenchment 
afterward,  are  usually  failures  " 

"  But,  mother,  to  come  back  to  the  subject  of  this  chamber 
furniture — I  shall  never  be  contented  with  dull,  red  pine  bod- 
steads  and  bureaus,  now  that  I  have  seen  this  beautiful  set, 
looking  like  the  finest  white  porcelain  !  Mother,  I  have  the 
picture  of  a  pure,  clean,  sweet  chamber,  to  the  realization  of 


THE     LITTLE     HOME.  227 

which,  this  while  furniture  is  needful — is  positively  necessary  ; 
acd  I  cannot  do  without  it !" 

"  You  shall  have  it,  my  love." 

il  Dear  mother,  how  I  thank  you — I  know  and  feel  that  I 
nr.i  selfish  in  this,  and  that  you  are  self-devoted — are  magnani- 
mous !  Yes,  mother,  I  know  how  naughty  I  am,  without 
b-Miig  able  to  be  anything  else  but  naughty." 

The  mother  sighed.  The  daughter  looked  up  with  inte- 
rest— with  an  expression  of  pain  crossing  her  features. 

"  Dear  mother,  do  you  think  me  very  selfish  ?" 

"  Lydia,"  was  all  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  perplexed  sadness. 
She  saw  the  tendency  to  selfish  indulgence  in  the  young 
woman,  and  while  too  conscientious  to  disclaim  her  knowledge 
of  the  fault,  she  lacked  the  moral  courage  to  rebuke  it  in  the 
daughter  whom  she  was  so  soon  about  to  lose. 

The  purchase  was  made,  and  the  furniture  sent  home.  It 
was  Mrs.  Anderson's  disposition  to  do  everything  she  under- 
took tlioroiujlity .  Lydia's  house  was  furnished  with  everything 
needful  to  comfort,  even  down  to  the  minutest  details.  And 
then  the  bridegroom  and  bride  removed  into  it. 

Very  sadly  felt  the  old  lady  when  left  in  utter  solitude. 
She  had  gone  home  with  the  young  couple,  had  remained  to 
tea,  and  returned  home  immediately  after.  Very  lonely  it 
it  was  to  go  to  bed  in  the  silent  house  j  very  lonely  to  rise  and 
get  breakfast  for  one',  very  sorrowful  to  eat  that  meal  in  soli- 
trde,  and  to  feel  that  this  was  the  first  day  of  many  years  of  lone- 
liness, unless — as  a  secret  hope  whispered  her — unless  one  of 
her  three  sons-in-law  should  invite  her  to  take  up  her  residence 
in  his  family.  It  was  a  dreary  prospect  to  grow  old  alone  in 
that  house,  in  that  house  where  her  toil  had  been  sweetened 
by  the  society  of  her  children,  in  that  house  whose  walls  had 
echoed  the  glad  shouts  of  their  infancy,  and  the  music-laugh- 
ter of  their  girlhood,  when  they  loved  only  "  mother" — that 
vacant,  silent,  cold  house  !  This  was  the  first  painful  feeling 
consequent  upon  the  marriage  of  her  last,  remaining  daughter. 


228  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

but  this  in  time  wore  off,  as  she  grew  accustomed  to  her  soli- 
tude. 

A  want  of  reflection  and  of  frankness  is  frequently  the  most 
fertile  cause  of  misapprehension  and  misconstruction  amonjr 
relatives  and  friends.  This  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Anderson 
and  her  family.  She  was  loved  as  one  of  her  gentle  and 
unselfish  nature  was  sure  to  be  loved ;  yet,  engaged  as  her 
sons-in-law  were  in  hard  work  every  day,  and  coming  home 
fatigued  as  they  did  every  night,  thinking  only  of  business 
in  the  morning,  only  of  fireside  enjoyments  in  the  evening, 
they  did  not  reflect  upon,  or  sympathize  with  the  peculiar 
griefs  of  the  forsaken  mother.  They  barely  knew  that  she 
was  alone,  they  did  not  feel  it;  if  they  had,  there  would  pro- 
bably have  been  a  rivalry  as  to  who  should  have  received  and 
monopolized  the  company  of  the  mother.  On  the  part  of  her 
daughters  a  fastidious — perhaps  you  will  think  a  morbid  deli- 
cacy inherited  from  their  mother— kept  them  from  making 
known  their  secret  wishes  upon  the  subject.  Affairs  went  on 
in  this  way  for  a  year  succeeding  the  marriage  of  Lydia,  and 
I  do  not  know  how  long  they  would  have  continued  to  mis- 
understand each  other,  had  not  one  of  those  providences  of 
domestic  life  adjusted  their  difficulties.  Lydia  was  expecting 
to  become  a  mother,  and  the  little  self-indulgent  creature  g''ew 
every  day  more  unwilling,  and  therefore  incompetent  to  do 
her  little  house-work.  Frank  proposed  to  hire  a  girl,  but 
Lydia,  with  what  Frank,  in  his  indulgent  love,  called  her 
"  pretty  petulance,"  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  a  stranger  in 
the  house.  Frank,  whose  greater  affection  gave  him  more 
acuteness  upon  the  subject  of  his  young  wife's  wishes,  than 
either  of  his  brothers-in-law  possessed — Frank  knew  that  she 
wanted  her  mother,  and  heroically  set  himself  to  what  he 
honestly  supposed  would  be  a  herculean  labour,  namely,  the 
task  of  persuading  "  mother"  to  leave  her  own  comfortable 
little  rough-cast  house  where  she  had  lived  for  thirty  years, 
and  to  take  up  her  abode  with  them.  It  was  beautiful  -  to  ' 


THE     LITTLE     HOME.  229 

observe  how  Frank  went  about  it,  with  his  modest  and  grace- 
ful embarrassment ;  and  it  was  charming  to  see  the  quiet  joy 
of  the  mother  when  she  perceived  that  so  far  from  being 
selfishness,  it  was  humility  that  prevented  her  favourite  »on- 
in-law  from  making  this  proposition,  until  impelled  by  the  new 
force  of  his  little  wife's  wishes.  Mrs.  Anderson  made  Frank 
happy  by  at  once  acceding  to  his  proposal,  and  the  young 
husband  returned  to  surprise  his  wife  with  the  joyful  intelli- 
gence that  her  mother  was  coming  to  live  with  them.  That 
was  a  happy  evening  at  "Rose  Cottage."  "Mother"  came 
over  to  take  tea,  and  settle  the  preliminaries  of  her  removal. 
The  house  was  very  small,  containing  only  two  rooms,  a  par- 
lour and  kitchen,  on  the  ground-floor,  two  bed-chambers  above, 
and  an  attic ;  but  it  was  large  enough  for  them.  The  front 
room  up  stairs  was  Lydia's  pure  white  chamber  j  the  back 
room  was  to  be  fitted  up  for  "  mother,"  because  it  overlooked 
the  garden  and  poultry  yard,  that  mother  would  always  feel 
interested  in ;  because  the  stair-case  led  from  this  room  to  the 
attic,  where  mother  could  bestow  the  accumulated  domestic 
treasure  of  years,  treasures  in  the  shape  of  patch-work,  carpet- 
balls,  &c.,  and,  finally,  because  it  contained  numerous  closets 
and  cupboards  for  mother's  bottles  of  oils  and  essences,  and 
jars  of  jelly,  &c.,  &c. 

All  these  matters  were  discussed  and  arranged  at  the  tea- 
table.  It  was  now  the  first  of  December.  It  was  settled  that 
Mrs.  Anderson  should  receive  all  her  children  under  her  roof 
once  more  upon  Christmas  Day,  and  should  then  remove  to 
Hose  Cottage  in  time  for  a  New  Year's  family  party  to  be  given 
by  Lydia.  Having  concluded  all  these  preliminaries,  the  old 
lady  returned  home  late  at  night,  attended  by  Frank. 

In  a  few  days  it  was  rumoured  among  the  sisters  that 
"  mother"  was  going  to  live  with  Lydia,  and  a  generous  rivalry 
was  excited.  Fairfield,  the  husband  of  Mary,  aud  the  senior 
Bon-5n  law,  waited  on  the  old  lady,  and  said,  in  his  open  way, 
that  if  he  nad  had  anv  suspicion  that  Mrs.  Anderson  intended 


2^0  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

to  break  up  housekeeping,  he  and  Mary  should  have  hastened 
to  put  in  their  claim  to  her  company  at  their  own  house. 

"  And  indeed,  you  know,  mother,"  he  argued,  "  it  is  our 
right — we  are  the  eldest — you  slight  us — you  neglect  us,  to 
pass  us  by  and  settle  with  little  Lydia." 

"  But  for  the  very  reason  you  advance  as  an  objection,  for 
her  youth,  Lydia  needs  me  more  than  either  of  her  sisters." 

Fairfield  used  both  argument  and  persuasion,  but  without 
effect.  He  reported  his  failure  to  his  wife  and  to  Ellen,  who 
took  supper  with  them  that  evening.  The  next  day  found 
Ellen  at  her  mother's  house  upon  the  same  errand. 

"  I  cannot,  like  Fairfiold  and  Mary,  by  the  rights  of  primo- 
geniture, claim  your  justice,  mother;  nor  can  I,  like  little 
Lydia,  through  helplessness,  appeal  to  your  mercy — but  I  do 
desire  a  share  of  your  society,  mother,  and  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  if  it  would  not  be  well  to  divide  your  time  between  us, 
living  four  months  of  the  year  with  each  of  your  children  in 
rotation." 

"  My  dear  Ellen,  an  old  woman  like  I  am,  needs  a  settled 
home — not  alone — that  is  too  dreary,  but  a  settled  home  with 
one  of  her  children.  This  moving  about  will  not  do  for  me. 
J  have  decided  to  abide  with  Lydia,  because  she  needs  me 
I  will  see  you  and  Mary  as  frequently  as  I  can  besides,  and 
you  must  all  of  you  come  to  me  at  Christmas,  that  I  may 
have  all  my  children  once  more  beneath  my  own  roof." 

The  Christmas  party  came  off,  and  after  it  was  over,  Mrs. 
Anderson  began  her  preparations  for  removal.  The  greater 
part  of  her  household  furniture,  together  with  her  garden  im- 
plements and  her  poultry,  were  divided  equally  among  her 
daughters.  The  cow,  the  favourite  white  bantam  chickens, 
aud  the  old  tortoise-shell  cat  were  sent  in  advance  of  herself 
to  "  Lydia's."  The  rough-cast  house,  which  was  very  small 
and  very  old,  was  let  out  at  a  small  rent,  and  by  Now  Year's 
Eve  the  old  lady  was  at  home  with  her  favour  te  daughter. 


TEAR     AT     ROSE     COTTAGE.  231 


CHAPTER  VI. 

NEW    YEAR    AT    ROSE    COTTAGE. 

FRANK  and  Lydia  had  invited  all  their  sisters  and  brothers 
with  all  their  children.  There  were  John  and  Mary  Fairfield, 
with  their  three  boys,  Sam,  Willie,  and  little  Harry,  and  Wil- 
helm  and  Ellen  Bohrer,  with  their  two  beautiful  little  girls, 
Susie  and  Bessie,  and  a  merry  New  Year's  party  they  made, 
now  that  their  little  excitement  of  rivalry  had  subsided — a 
merrier,  happier  party  than  they  w~r*  ever  destined  to  form 
again — no  presentiment  of  that  faot,  however,  shadowed  the 
brightness  of  their  spirits,  or  dampened  their  mirth.  As  soon 
as  supper  was  over,  the  old  lady,  fatigued  with  the  unusual 
exertions  of  the  day,  was  comfortably  ensconced  in  a  large 
arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  glowing  grate,  and  her  grand- 
children  crowded  round  her  for  caresses.  Her  attention  was 
thereby  abstracted  from  the  general  company,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  hour  for  breaking  up  arrived,  and  the  party  had  dis- 
persed, that  a  terrible  fact  was  made  known  to  her,  in  this 
manner.  She  had  observed  that  Frank  had  kept  his  seat 
through  ail  the  bustle  of  the  departure,  and  ascribed  his  inert- 
ness to  indisposition.  After  seeing  the  last  guest  depart,  she 
returned,  and  going  up  to  Frank,  inquired  how  he  felt.  He 
was  sitting  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  with  both  his  feet 
lazily  extended,  with  his  hand  idly  thrust  into  his  breeches 
pocket,  and  his  head,  with  an  expression  of  drivelling,  idiotic 
complacency,  bowed  sideways  upon  his  breast.  He  looked  up 
with  the  stupid  stare,  and  replied  in  the  maudlin  tones  of  in- 
toxication, 

"Jolly,  old  gal!" 

The  widow  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  gazed  at  him  in 
14 


232  THE     THREE      SISTERS. 

deep  distress,  and  without  one  word  of  comment  turned  awny 
— turned  away  to  see-her  daughter  weeping  bitterly.  Lydia 
was  seated,  in  a  chair  accidentally  drawn  up  to  a  table,  upon 
which  her  arms  and  head  were  thrown  in  the  abandonment  of 
grief,  and  sobs,  such  as  only  burst  from  an  almost  broken  hcait, 
were  convulsing  her  bosom.  The  widow  approached  her — 
took  her  hand.  At  this  touch  of  affection,  of  sympathy, 
Lydia  only  sobbed  with  greater  violence.  Her  mother  drew 
her  softly  away  into  the  next  room,  and  seating  herself,  took 
her  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  mother  !"  gasped  Lydia,  "  I  thought  to  have 
concealed  this  from  you,  and  you  have  found  it  out !  Oh, 
another !  do  not  think  too  badly  of  Frank  !  poor  Frank  !" 

"  Is  this  the  first  time- this  has  happened,  child  ?" 

"Oh,  mother!  do  not  ask  me!  please  don't !"  sobbed  Lydia 
anew. 

The  mother  now  understood  that  if  this  intoxication  were 
not  habitual,  it  was  also  not  unprecedented. 

Lydia  now  arose  from  her  mother's  embrace,  and  returned 
to  the  other  room,  where  she  found  her  husband  in  the  heavy 
insensibility  of  drunkenness.  Lydia  stood  over  him — spoKe 
to  him — he  did  not  reply.  She  put  her  arms  around  him  and 
spoke  very  earnestly,  close  to  his  car,  begging  him  to  get  up 
and  go  to  bed.  He  replied  to  that  gentle  touch  and  tone  with 
a  stupid  grunt.  It  was  impracticable  for  that  delicate  young 
woman  in  her  feeble  condition,  even  with  the  help  of  her 
mother,  to  raise  and  assist  him  up  stairs  to  bed ;  yet  she  could 
not  leave  him  there.  It  was  impossible  to  look  upon  that  fine, 
athletic,  manly  figure,  doubled  up  into  shapelessness  in  the 
beastly  torpor  of  drunkenness ; — upon  those  handsome  yc  uth- 
ful  features,  fallen  into  an  idiotic  imbecility,  and  to  leave  him 
there. 

11  Go  to  bed,  mother ! — go  to  bed,  dear  mother.  I  shall 
remain  here  until  I  can  get  him  up  stairs — poor  Frank  !  Oh. 
mother !  what  a  termination  to  our  festival !  What  a  rcoeptioL 


NEW     YEAR     AT     ROSE     COTTAGE.  233 

for  you  !  Alas  !  what  a  night  this  is  !  Your  first  night  under 
our  roof!.  You  will  be  going  away  to-morrow,  mother— • 
will  you  not,  mother?" 

The  old  lady  set  down  the  night-lamp,  put  the  extinguisher 
on  it,  and  resumed  her  old  seat  in  the  arm-chair. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  bed,  mother?" 

"  No,  my  dear." 

"  But,  mother,  you  must — you  will  be  ill — do  go  to  yoar 
room." 

"  My  child,  don't  torment  me ;  I  shall  sit  here  as  long  AS 
you  do.  I  could  not  sleep,  Lydia — how  could  I  ?  with  the 
knowledge  that  you  were  alone  with  this — this  man  down 
here." 

"Poor  Frank !  Mother,  please  don't  call  him  a  man,  and 
he  so  good  to  us,  too.  Oh,  mother,  you  will  dislike  Frank 
now,  and  you  will  be  leaving  us  again.  I  am  so  much  afraid 
you  will  I" 

"No,  my  love,  I  do  not  dislike  Frank.  I  pity  him,  sorrow 
for  him  and  for  you,  and  I  will  remain  with  you  and  do  all  I 
can  to  win  him  from  this  dreadful,  dangerous,  fatal  habit ! 
Have  you  ever  spoken  to  him  about  it,  Lydia  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  no — it  has  not  very  often  happened,  and 
when  it  has,  and  when  it  is  over,  upon  the  next  morning  poor 
Frank  looks  so  down-cast,  so  mortified,  that  I  could  not  to 
save  my  very  life  say  one  word  to  him  about  it;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  try  all  I  can  to  make  him  think  that  I  did  not  perceive 
it.  or  did  not  think  much  of  it,  or  do  not  remember  it.  I  try 
to  mate  mm  forget  all  about  it,  and  to  restore  his  cheerfulness. 
He  is  so  handsome  and  good  when  he  is  in  good  spirits,  mother, 
and  it  is  so  dismal  to  see  him  suffer,  poor  fellow  !  by  his  severe 
self-reproach  I" 

"  Yon  want  moral  courage,  Lydia.  Lydia,  one  of  the  most 
important,  and  one  of  the  most  painful  offices  of  true  affection, 
is  to  remonstrate  with  our  friends  against  their  dangerous 
faults  and  foibles.  You  feel  that,  Lydia,  in  the  case  of  youi 


SJ84  THE     THREE     SISTERS 

husband ;  but,  Lydia,  listen  !  I  have  known  a  mother,  through 
an  excess  of  false  tenderness  to  her  child,  lack  the  firmness  to 
give  it  the  necessary  bitter  drug  that  would  have  saved  its 
life.  Sooner  than  afflict  her  child  with  a  momentary  incon- 
venience, she  has  run  the  risk,  and  has  seen  it  die.  How 
eevsre  must  have  been  the  self-reproaches  of  that  mother, 
Lydia !  You,  Lydia,  from  the  fear  of  giving  your  husband 
an  instant's  pain,  refrain  from  assisting  his  self-judgment  by 
your  sympathy  in  that.  Lydia,  you  or  I  must  speak  to  him 
to-morrow." 

11  Oh,  mother !  I  cannot !  cannot !  and  you,  mother !  please 
never  think  of  it !  oh,  mother,  please  do  not  even  look  as 
though  you  noticed  it,  much  less  speak  of  it;  please  don't! 
please  don't !  Poor  Frank  !  he  will  feel  badly  enough  with- 
out that !" 

"  Again  I  say  you  lack  moral  courage,  Lydia.  Lydia !  do 
you  know,  have  you  ever  seen  the  ultimate  effects  of  habitual 
intoxication  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  men  bloated,  decrepid, 
ragged,  reeling  through  the  streets  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  the 
families  of  such  men  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother  !  you  can  never  think  that  Frank — oh,  gra- 
cious Heaven,  no ! — you  never  meant  that !"  And  Lydia 
exhibited  such  acute  distress  that  her  gentle  mother  immedi- 
ately changed  the  subject.  At  last,  however,  Lydia  herself 
resumed,  by  saying — "  But,  mother,  as  you  wish  me  to  set  my 
face  against  this  drinking,  and  to  remonstrate  upon  the  subject 
with  Frank,  it  occurs  to  me  to  say  that  I  have  heard  of  some 
husbands  who  have  been  driven  into  greater  excesses  by  the 
reproaches  of  their  wives — may  there  not  be  a  danger  of  that 
in  this  case  ?  May  not  Frank,  humiliated  in  his  own  estima- 
:ion  by  my  attempts  to  reform  him,  plunge  into  dissipation  of 
which  he  is  guiltless  now  ?" 

"  My  dear !  no  ! — for  this  reason — you  will '  speak  the  truth 
in  love,  — as  it  must  be  spoken,  to  do  good.  All  the  differ- 
ence in  effect  lies  in  this — the  truth — spoken  in  anger,  scorn, 


NEW     YEAR     AT     E08E     COTTAGE.  235 

reproach,  or  love.  You  will  speak  the  truth,  not  in  anger, 
not  in  scorn,  not  in  reproach,  but — in  love.  Do  you  mark 
the  difference  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  I  hate  to  do  it;  I  am  afraid  I  should  not 
do  it  rightly ;  I  am  afraid  I  should  be  misunderstood ;  I  ana 
afraid  that  I  should  give  offence,  and  do  harm.  I  am  very 
reluctant  to  undertake  it." 

"  That  delicate  reluctance,  my  dear,  insures  that  you  will 
do  it  rightly,  if  you  summon  the  usual  force  to  overcome  it. 
Now,  Lydia,  Frank  is  so  sound  asleep  that  although  we  may 
not  be  able  to  carry  him  up  to  bed,  we  can  lay  him  on  the 
sofa  and  cover  him  up."  This  was  soon  effected.  "  And  now, 
Lydia,  you  must  go  to  bed — you  are  too  feeble  for  this  great 
tax  of  anxiety  and  loss  of  sleep — come  !" 

Lydia  yielded  to  her  mother's  persuasions  and  retired  to 
rest.  She  with  her  childish  elasticity  of  spirits  soon  threw 
off  her  burden  of  grief,  and  fell  into  a  deep,  refreshing  sleep. 
Not  so  the  mother.  Other  causes  of  uneasiness  besides  the 
newly  discovered  habits  of  her  son-in-law  drove  sleep  from 
her  eyelids.  One  of  these  was  the  utter  unfitness  of  her 
daughter  to  cope  with  the  difficulties  of  her  position.  Affec- 
tionate and  benevolent  even  to  fatuity,  Lydia  could  never  by 
word,  look  or  gesture,  bear  her  testimony  against  evil  in  any 
one  whom  she  loved.  She  was  at  once  very  thoughtless  and 
very  sensitive.  She  was  evidently  too  unreflecting  to  com- 
prehend the  full  degree  of  danger  in  which  her  husband  stood, 
aud  withal  so  tender-hearted,  so  delicate  in  mind  and  body, 
that  it  seemed  an  ungracious,  and,  just  in  her  present  condition, 
an  unsafe  task  to  let  her  into  the  secret  of  his  great  peril. 
The  widow's  tortured  brain  seethed  with  thought  all  night, 
she  arose  in  the  morning  with  a  severe  headache.  She  fell 
ujton  her  knees  and  offered  up  her  morning  prayer,  beseeching 
God  to  give  her  strength  and  wisdom  for  her  new  aud  hard 
duties  Calmed  by  this  prayer,  she  dressed  herself  and  wei-t 


£36  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

below  stairs.  Lydia  was  already  there  engaged  in  getting 
breakfast. 

"  Where  is  Frank,  my  daughter  ?"  asked  the  old  lady,  look- 
ing around  and  missing  him. 

"  He  has  walked  out,  mother — he  feels  so  badly,  mother  I 
Say  nothing  to  him  to-day." 

The  widow  did  not  reply.  Soon  breakfast  was  placed  upon 
the  table,  and  in  a  few  moments  Frank  entered,  looking  very 
sorrow-stricken  and  ashamed — nodded  a  "good-morning"  to 
his  raother-in-law,  and  seated  himself  pensively  at  the  foot  of 
the  table.  Lydia's  manner  was  unusually  tender  ?nd  atten- 
tive to  him.  He  seemed  to  feel  this,  and  in  some  degree  to 
sink  under  it. 

It  happened  to  be  the  Sabbath,  and  too  early  as  yet  for 
church,  so  that  when  breakfast  was  over  and  the  table  cleared 
away,  and  when  Lydia  had  gone  up  stairs  to  make  up  her  bed, 
Frank,  instead  of  going  out,  drew  a  chair  to  the  .fire,  rested 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  dropped  his  head  upon  the  open 
palms  of  his  hands,  and  gave  himself  up  to  bitter  reflections. 

Mrs.  Anderson  stood  looking  at  him  sorrowfully  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  going  up  to  him,  took  the  chair  by  his 
side,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers,  said,  with  great  tenderness 
— "  Frank,  my  son,  I  am  a  very  old  woman ;  I  am  sixty-five 
years  old,  and  have  suffered  and  lived  through  much.  Have 
I  not  earned  the  privilege  of  speaking  with  affectionate  free- 
dom to  the  ynithful  of  my  own  household  ?"  Frank  neither 
replied,  nor  looked  up.  "  Frank,  I  have  known  you  ever  since 
you  were  an  infant  in  the  arms.  I  promised  your  widowed 
and  dying  mother,  never  to  forsake  you,  always  to  regard  you 
as  my  own  son.  Frank !  have  I  fulfilled  that  promise  ? 
Answer  me,  Frank  !" 

"  My  dearest  and  best  mother  !"  murmured  the  young  man, 
with  emotion,  as  he  pressed  the  venerable  hands  that  had  held 
his  own. 


NEW     YEAR     AT     ROSE     COTTAGE.  287 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  Frank,  very  freely — as  if  you  were 
indeed  my  own  son?  nay  !  as  if  you  were  my  dawjhtcrf" 

"  Speak  on,  mother  !  do  not  spare  me  !  I  am  not  irritable  ! 
believe  me,  I  am  not !  Speak  on,  mother !  I  shall  not  get 
angry,  or  even  impatient!  I  have  no  dignity  to  support. 
Ay,  mother,  begin,  and  the  heavier  you  lay  it  on,  the  better 
.you  will  do  your  duty!" 

"  Lay  what  on,  dear  Frank  ?  I  am  not  going  to  reproach 
you  !  Shall  a  physician  foolishly  reproach  a  patient  for  whom 
he  should  only  prescribe  ?  You  are  sick,  Frank,  and  I  wish 
to  cure  you — that  is  all.  Frank,  I  know  your  disease !  I 
have  had  a  slight  personal  experience  in  it." 

"  You,  mother!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a  recoil 
of  something  approaching  to  horror  and  disgust. 

"  Yes,  Frank,  /, — and  I  know  it  all — its  symptoms  and  its 
cure.  Listen,  Frank :  When  I  was  nursing  my  last  baby, 
your  wife,  Lydia,  partly  from  having  nursed  her  too  long,  and 
partly  from  grief  at  the  loss  of  her  father,  who  died,  as  you 
know,  when  she  was  but  two  years  old,  I  fell  into  a  very  feeble 
state.  My  chest  was  very  much  debilitated.  The  doctor 
told  me  to  drink  port  wine  every  day,  just  before  dinner. 
Well,  I  got  the  port  wine,  Frank,  and  it  was  such  a  cordial  to 
my  weak  stomach — as  soon  as  swallowed  it  diffused  such 
delightful  warmth  and  strength  through  my  chilled  and  sink- 
ing frame, — it  exhilarated  my  depressed  spirits  so  much,  that 
I  grew  to  wait  for  the  hour  of  taking  the  agreeable  medicine 
with  impatience.  Still,  for  a  while,  I  had  the  self-control  to 
refrain  from  anticipating  that  hour,  or  taking  an  over-dose 
when  it  came.  But  at  last,  Frank,  I  seemed  to  need  it  more 
and  more,  the  longer  I  continued  its  use  The  seeming  good 
effect  of  the  wine  was  only  momentary,  while  its  evil  effects 
were  permanent  and  increasing,  stimulating  for  awhile,  and 
then  inducing  greater  debility,  and  consequently  a  seemingly 
greater  needy  certainly  a  greater  desire.  Frank,  it  became  * 
disease — I  could  riot  see  it  then— I  was  beguiled  on  .and  on— 


238  THE     THREE     8IBTKR8. 

growing  weaker,  more  feverish,  still  believing  it  to  be  the 
natural  progress  of  pulmonary  consumption — still  fancying 
the  wine  a  positive  and  growing  necessity.  At  last,  Frank, 
one  day,  when  very  weak,  and  very  thirsty,  I  took  more  than 
I  intended  to  take;  it  got  into  my  head,  made  me  drowsy,  I 
lay  down  on  the  sofa,  and  fell  into  a  stupid  sleep.  It  was  two 
o'clock,  or  about  that,  when  I  lay  down ;  it  was  after  midnight 
that  I  awoke,  or  some  loud  noise  in  the  street  awoke  me.  I 
rose  up,  but  could  not  stand  up — I  was  dizzy,  sick,  but  sane 
— I  sank  down — closed  my  eyes.  I  knew  then — oh,  God, 
Frank,  with  what  utter  humiliation,  with  what  anguish  I  knew 
that  I  had  been — drunk.  Frank,  I  had  enjoyed,  however 
unworthily,  the  reputation  of  a  good  Christian — an  industrious, 
benevolent,  self-denying  woman — a  devoted  wife  and  mother — 
and  Frank,  I  had  been  beguiled  into  drunkenness — involun- 
tarily, unconsciously !  Frank,  at  that  moment  of  closing  my 
bodily  eyes,  the  eyes  of  my  spirit  were  opened,  and  I  saw,  as 
though  it  had  been  revealed  by  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning, 
the  fearful  descent  down  which  I  was  hastening.  I,  the  care- 
fully brought-up  daughter  of  pious  parents — I,  the  mother  of 
young  children,  who  loved  and  venerated  me — who  gathered 
around  my  knee,  morning  and  evening,  to  offer  up  their  pure 
prayers  and  praises  to  God — I,  their  sole  dependence,  whose 
failure  would  make  them  paupers !  Oh,  Frank,  my  spirit  was 
wounded  to  the  quick ! — Frank,  I  have,  in  the  course  of  my 
life,  three  times  suffered  the  very  extremity  of  bodily  pain — 
pain  that  at  its  acme  resulted  in  insensibility,  and  so  had  a 
merciful  limit;  but  I  had  now  to  experience,  most  bitterly, 
how  much  more  intense,  how  much  more  insufferable  than 
physical  agony  was  mental  anguish, — how  much  more  scorch- 
ing, scathing,  than  fire  and  flames  to  the  flesh  and  blood,  were 
remorse  and  shame  to  the  soul !  It  was  so  sudden  !  so  over- 
whelming, this  rending  aside  the  veil  that  revealed  me  tc 
myself !  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  there  in  that  awful 
State,  or  how  it  was  that  I  managed  to  get  up  at  last,  and  ga 


KEW     YEAE     AT     ROSE     COTTAGE.  239 

into  the  next  room  to  look  after  the  children.  I  found  a  little 
night  taper  still  burning, — Ellen  and  little  Ljdia  were  un- 
dressed and  comfortably  in  bed,  through  the  care  of  their  sister 
Mary,  then  nearly  thirteen  years  of  age ;  but  Mary  was  sitting 
on  the  foot  of  their  little  trundle-bed,  with  her  elbows  resting 
on  her  knees,  and  her  head  fallen  upon  her  hands  in  an  atti- 
tude of  grief  and  despair  I  have  never  seen  paralleled  in  a 
child ;  she  looked  up  as  I  entered.  Oh,  Frank  !  if  another 
pang  were  needed  to  consummate  my  suffering,  it  was  inflicted 
then,  when  I  saw  that  Mary,  my  daughter,  understood  it  all. 
All! — no,  not  all;  she  saw  the  sin,  the  shame,  but  not  the 
hidden  causes  that  would  have  palliated  it.  Not  one  word 
bearing  upon  the  subject  was  spoken  by  either.  '  Go  to  res*, 
Mary,'  said  I,  as  I  undressed  myself,  ai<d  bathed  my  head  and 
face.  She  obeyed  me,  and  we  were  both  soon  in  bed.  I 
arose  the  next  morning,  and  stealing  quietly,  for  I  did  not 
wish  by  any  open  and  decided  act,  to  impress  upon  the  memory 
of  Ellen  a  fact  that  I  wished  her  to  forget — I  took  the  bottle 
of  wine  under  my  shawl,  went  in  the  yard  and  turned  it  out, 
and  from  that  time  until  the  night  of  your  wedding,  when 
Bohrer  brought  it  ia,  there  has  been  no  alcohol  in  any  shape 
in  our  house.  Do  you  think  my  victory,  then,  was  the  com- 
plete overthrow  of  my  enemy  ?  Far  from  it,  Frank — it  was 
but  the  commencement  of  a  warfare  that  for  awhile  seemed  to 
increase  in  strength  day  by  day.  That  day  the  craving  of 
this  diseased  appetite  was  wor§e  than  the  pangs  of  hunger. 
I  was  nearly  fainting  from  the  withdrawal  of  the  accustomed 
stimulant — but  I  persevered — the  next  day  it  was  worse — • 
and  the  suffering  continued  to  increase — you  see  I  disguise 
nothing — towards  the  last  the  failure  of  my  whole  nervous 
system,  the  prostration,  and  the  intense  craving  for  the  stimu- 
lant, that  would  have  temporarily  strengthened  and  exhilarated 
me,  was  worse,  I  think,  than  the  pangs  of  famine,  but  I  know 
that  complete  victory  over  my  fascinating  foe — or  a  fate  worse 
than  deatn,  awaited  me  and  my  children;  and  I  resolved, 


240  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

with  (jrod's  help,  to  conquer.  Frank  !  the  second  week  my 
sufferings  began  to  abate — tbe  third  week  they  were  over. 
The  fourth  week  consummated  the  victory.  I  did  not  feel 
the  slightest  desire  for  the  stimulant.  Remember,  Frank,  I 
had  been  but  once  in  ignorance  beguiled  into  excess,  yet  that 
one  error,  and  the  remorse  that  followed  fast  upon  it,  has  given 
ine  to  understand  and  deeply  pity  that  powerful  disease  of 
morbid  appetite  to  which  so  many  are  subjected.  I  know 
that  many  during  temporary  fits  of  bodily  debility,  particularly 
when  suffering  from  debility  of  the  stomach,  resort  to  alcohol 
for  its  warming  and  exhilarating  effects,  little  knowing  that 
this  temporary  strength  subsides  in  greater  weakness — little 
knowing  the  whirlpool  of  temptation  into  which  they  have  en- 
tered. The  only  way  is  to  stop  short  at  once — bear  all  the 
short  suffering  that  follows  with  heroism — persevere,  and  you 
must  conquer." 

Frank  had  listened  with  deep  interest  to  the  old  lady's  story; 
he  had  rccoguiscd,  in  her  case,  the  pathology  of  his  own  ;  when 
she  had  concluded,  he  raised  her  hand  respectfully  to  his  lips, 
and  said, 

"I  reverence  you,  mother!  You  are  my  salvation.  I  am 
not  yet  degraded,  mother;  nobody  calls  me  a  drunkard;  I 
have  been  caught,  perhaps,  half-a-dozen  times  in  the  last  year, 
but  have  made  no  public  exposure  of  myself;  and  now  I  will 
•  break  right  off.  And  when  I  suffer  a  great  temptation,  I  will 
come  to  you,  and  you  shall  encourage  me,  and  help  me  to  bear 
it — for  you  will  understand  it,  and  your  comprehending  sym- 
p.athy  will  be  a  perfect  support." 

"  That  will  save  you  and  yours,  my  son — and  now  it  is  quite 
time  to  get  ready  for  church.  Do  you  attend  divine  service 
on  the  Sabbath,  Frank  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"That  is  well;  'forsake  not  the  assembling  of  yourselves 
together,'  "  said  the  old  lady,  rising  to  go  up  stairs  and  dresf 
for  church.  - 


PIFFTOULIIES     AND     CHANGES.  241 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DIFFICULTIES    AND    CHANGES. 

SUSTAINED  by  the  intelligent  sympathy  and  encouragement 
of  his  "  mother,"  as  he  fondly  called  her,  Frank  Miller  heroi- 
cally persevered  in  his  total  abstinence ;  and  in  the  course  of 
a  few  weeks  had  apparently  gained  the  .mastery  over  his 
diseased  appetite :  in  a  few  more  weeks  that  appetite  had  dis- 
appeared. About  this  time  his  child,  a  son,  was  born,  and  in 
the  first  fresh  joys  of  young  paternity,  he  forgot  both  his  pro- 
pensity and  his  sufferings  in  conquering  it.  Never  was  «i 
happier  young  husband  and  father  than  Frank  Miller,  when 
Lydia  had  recovered  from  her  confinement  and  was  able  tc 
take  her  place  by  the  side  of  the  nice  kitchen  fire,  with  the 
cradle  near  at  hand.  And  when  the  spring  opened,  it  was  a 
standing  amusement  to  that  humble  neighbourhood,  to  see 
Frank  walk  his  baby  out  every  morning,  while  Lydia  and  her 
mother  were  preparing  breakfast.  And  after  breakfast,  to  see 
his  fond  leave-taking  of  the  little  one,  before  he  went  out  to 
his  work.  And  to  see  the  queer  presents  of  horse-cakes,  spin- 
ning tops,  &c.,  that  he  would  bring  home  every  evening  to  the 
babe  oi  three  months  old !  Towards  the  summer,  however. 
Frank's  spirits  flagged,  he  became  grave,  or  only  fitfully  gay. 
When  Lydia  would  tenderly  inquire  into  the  subject  of  his 
gloom — he  would  laugh  merrily  and  reply,  "  Nonsense  !  I'm 
tired,  that's  all,  child." 

Mrs  Anderson  saw  that  there  was  something  more  serious 
than  bodily  fatigue  in  his  gravity.  She  refrained  from  in- 
quiring for  some  time,  because  she  expected  that  he  would 
voluntarily  make  her  his  confidant,  but  at  length  seeing  thai 
this  was  not  likely  to  happen,  she  took  the  opportunity  one 
day  while  Lydia  was  gone  to  market,  to  ask  Frank  the  cuuss 


,i42  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

of  his  sadness  The  ice  thus  broken,  the  waters  of  confidence 
flowed  freely.  Frank  at  once  and  candidly  informed  her  that 
he  was  burdened  with  debts  and  worried  with  duns,  that  he 
saw  no  way  of  discharging  the  debts  or  escaping  the  duns. 

"  Why,  how  is  that,  Frank  ?"  inquired  the  old  lady. 

"  Why,  mother,  to  tell  the  truth,  when  I  married  I  only 
had  two  hundred  dollars.  I  paid  half  of  it  away  for  some 
lumber  to  build  this  house  with,  and  I  got  the  rest  on  credit, 
And  that  other  hundred,  mother,  some  how  or  other  slipped 
through  my  fingers.  I  was  foolish  and  thoughtless;  every- 
thing Lydia  admired  I  bought  for  her,  whether  she  expressed 
a  wish  for  it  or  not.  I  had  a  vague  idea  of  retrenching  some 
time  or  other,  and  making  up  the  extra  outlay." 

"  The  old  self-deception  upon  which  so  many  have  ruined 
themselves,  and  their  families,  Frank;  it  very  seldom  answers." 

"  It  has  not  answered  in  my  case,  mother.  I  have  not  saved 
one  cent  of  my  wages." 

"  No — the  habit  of  inconsiderate  expenditure  may  be  formed 
in  a  short  time — and  it  is  very  difficult  to  conquer  it,  when 
you  think  you  are  going  to  retrench  and  make  up — how  much 
do  you  owe,  Frank  ?" 

"  I  owe  Fairfield  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  for  the 
carpenter's  work  upon  this  house.  I  owe  Ingle  a  hundred 
dollars  for  the  lumber,  and  Purdy  thirty  dollars  balance  for 
painting  and  glazing,  that  is  all.  I  owe  no  small  debts.  I 
pay  cash  for  my  marketing,  and  settle  my  grocery  and  drj 
goods  bill  every  month." 

"  Frank,  you  have  gained  one  victory  by  self-denial — cow 
begin  another  struggle — get  this  difficulty  conquered,  and  you 
will  be  a  free  man  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Resolve  to 
set  aside  one-third  of  your  wages  to  pay  off  these  debts,  and 
you  will  be  clear  in  six  months.  You  can  do  it  by  cutting  off 
tmnecessaries.  Buy  no  more  pinchbeck  brooches  and  gilt 
combs  for  Lydia,  no  horse-cakes  and  spinning  tops  for  the 
buby,  no  ugly  caricature  prints  for  the  walls.  Come,  Frank, 


DIFFICULTIES     AND     CH.XQES.  243 

I  will  help  you  in  this  struggle  also.  You  shall  nave  the 
reining  of  my  little  rough-cast  house  for  the  year;  it  is  but 
five  dollars  a  month,  but  it  will  help  you  some." 

"  You  are  so  disinterested,  mother !  but  I  could  not  think 
of  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  your  generosity,  besides  it  is 
ahuost  your  only  support." 

"  My  son,  I  can  manage  well  without  it  for  a  year — when 
I  can  not  get  along,  I  will  let  you  know." 

"  You  are  so  good  !" 

"  Nonsense,  dear  Frank,  I  am  good  to  my  own,"  replied  the 
old  lady,  in  her  peculiarly  cheering  and  affectionate  tone. 

The  system  of  retrenchment  was  commenced,  and  through 
Mrs.  Anderson's  rigid  adherence  to  its  provisions,  and  through 
her  constant  affectionate  check  upon  Frank's  irregularity,  it 
was  persevered  in,  and  would  have  been  successful,  but  for 
one  dreadful  calamity;  that  shocked  from  their  minds  al: 
thoughts  of  pecuniary  or  selfish  interest.  Fairfield,  while  at 
work  upon  the  roof  of  a  three-story  house,  lost  his  footing,  and 
fell  to  the  ground.  He  was  picked  up  and  brought  home 
lifeless.  Mrs.  Anderson  went  at  once  to  her  daughter,  and 
remained  to  console  her  under  her  terrible  affliction.  Quite 
absorbed  in  her  sympathy  with  Mary  and  her  orphans,  she 
ceased  to  remember  the  lesser  troubles  of  Frank  and  Lydia. 
Indeed,  they  themselves  forgot  their  little  difficulties  in  the 
contemplation  of  their  sister's  great  sorrow.  All  their  little 
rules  were  broken  through,  and  this  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weviks.  Frank  had  lost,  by  carelessness,  every  inch  of  ground 
he  had  gained  by  retrenchment.  Thus  the  summer  passed 
away.  Mrs.  Anderson  still  remaining  with  Mary,  and  taking 
in  plain  sewing  to  help  her  along  with  the  little  family  ex- 
penses, and  now  almost  regretting  that  she  had  made  over  tc 
Frank  all  the  proceeds  of  the  rent  of  the  little  rough-cast  house 
Poor  old  mother !  she  would  have  given  her  very  last  cent, 
and  exerted  her  very  last  strength  in  the  service  of  her  child 
ren — and  she  only  lamented  that  her  ability  was  not  equal  tc 


244  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

the  demands  made  upon  it.  As  winter  approached  anothei 
cause  of  anxiety  was  added  to  the  many  that  oppressed  her. 
Frank  Miller  was  thrown  out  of  employment.  There  wag 
certainly  no  danger  of  immediate  suffering  from  this,  for 
Frank's  credit  with  the  grocers  and  hucksters,  where  Le  had 
always  paid  his  debts  punctually,  was  above  par — still  it  was 
a  very  serious  draw-back  where  two  or  three  large  debts  re- 
mained to  be  paid,  and  besides,  there  was  no  telling  how  long 
he  might  be  forced  to  remain  in  idleness.  To  increase  the 
embarrassment  of  the  family,  another  child,  a  girl,  was  born 
to  them,  just  thirteen  months  after  the  birth  of  their  boy; 
and  now  that  Mary  had  in  some  degree  recovered  from  the 
first  violent  ravages  of  grief,  Mrs.  Anderson  came  once  more 
to  reside  with,  and  assist  her  youngest  daughter.  Truly  she 
was  a  devoted  mother !  But  the  earthly  trials  of  this  faithful 
servant  of  God,  and  lover  of  her  kind,  were  very  near  their 
conclusion.  Lydia  had  scarcely  risen  from  her  second  accouche- 
ment when  she  was  called  to  take  her  place  by  the  sick-bed 
of  her  mother.  A  bilious  pleurisy  had  seized  her.  The 
disease  in  its  progress  defied  all  the  efforts  of  the  physician  to 
arrest  it,  and  upon  the  night  of  the  tenth  day  her  acute  bodily 
sufferings  ceased,  and  she  sank  into  an  easy  and  beautiful 
languor,  subsiding  into  death.  So  quietly  had  her  spirit 
passed,  that  but  for  a  smile  that  flitted  across  her  face — a 
beautiful  smile !  a  young  smile — an  infantile  smile,  such  as 
lights  up  the  countenance  of  a  babe  awakening  from  a  dream 
• — a  divine  irradiation,  that  in  passing  from  her  features  ef&ced 
every  mark  that  years  of  grief  and  care  had  traced  upon  it, 
leaving  upon  the  inanimate  clay  the  tender  placidity  of  sleep- 
ing  childhood. 

Her  children  mourned  her  death  as  only  children  can  mourn 
such  a  mother.  From  her  peculiar  temperament  the  grief  of 
Lydia  was  most  violent  and  ungovernable  at  first,  but  as  a 
natural  consequence  soonest  expended  itself.  She  was  tho 
first  to  recover  her  cheerfulness.  Time,  religion,  and  oi-cupa- 


THE     FATAL     GLASS     Of     B  K  A  N  D  Y.  2-rO 

lion  are  the  great  cures  for  sorrow — the  poignant  anguish  of 
the  children  at  the  death  of  their  beloved  mothtr,  at  length 
subsided  into  a  tender  memory,  united  to  a  loving  Christian 
hope. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  FATAL  GLASS  OP  BRANDY. 

TIIE  spring  opened  with  better  prospects  for  the  denizens 
of  The  Three  Cottages.  Mary  Fairfield  had  got  a  run  of 
custom  in  dress-making — just  enough  to  keep  her  comfortably 
employed,  without  driving  her  to  ruin  her  health  by  late  hours 
and  close  confinement.  With  her  frugal  habits  and  judicious 
management,  she  was  doing  well  for  her  three  boys,  providing 
them  with  wholesome  plain  food  and  comfortable  clothing, 
and  sending  them  to  public  school. 

Bohrer  was  making  money  and  growing  selfish,  losing  tho 
good-humour  and  bonhommie  of  his  countenance  and  manners, 
and  getting  an  expression  of  acute  calculation,  and  contracting 
habits  of  reserve  and  silence.  Ellen  had  once  or  twice  en- 
deavoured to  persuade  him  to  abandon  the  sale  of  liquor,  but 
without  success.  The  obstinacy  that  had  refused  to  yield  to 
the  sound  reasoning  and  affectionate  persuasion  of  Mrs.  Ander- 
son, could  scarcely  be  expected  to  yield  to  the  fitful  pleadings 
of  the  weak  Ellen.  Yes,  Ellen  was  weak,  and  infirm  of  pur- 
pose. We  have  seen  her  in  the  first  year  of  her  married  life, 
bearing  her  honest,  but  gentle  testimony  against  the  use  of 
ardent  spirits.  We  have  seen  her  gradually  abandon  her  post 
of  mild  remonstrance,  and  now  we  might  occasionally  see  her 
taking  her  tumbler  of  toddy,  after  corning  in  from  a  cold  or  a 
wet  walk.  But  the  family  of  i<'rauk  Miller  suffered  most 
leverely  from  the  death  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  the  loss  of  hfc? 


246  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

wise  counsels  and  vigilant  guidance.  As  soon  as  the  agitation 
occasioned  by  their  household  afflictions  had  in  some  degree 
subsided,  Frank  looked  earnestly  into  his  little  affairs.  After 
such  deliberation  as  his  unschooled  and  flighty  mind  was  capa- 
ble of  maintaining,  Frank  Miller  determined  that  he  would 
get  clear  of  the  burden  of  debt,  by  the  rigid  economy  advised 
by  his  mother-in-law.  Frank  Miller's  sanguine  and  energetic 
temperament  made  him  necessarily  very  industrious — he  was 
a  thoroughly  hard  worker.  And  now,  had  Frank  possessed 
a  sensible  as  well  as  an  amiable  wife  in  Lydia,  his  difficulties 
would  have  melted  away  before  his  decision.  Alas !  Lydia, 
with  all  her  gentleness  and  tenderness,  was  weak  and  capri- 
cious. It  was  now  two  years  since  Frank  had  left  off  drinking 
It  was  again  New  Year's  Eve.  New  Year's  Eve  seemed  a 
fatal  day  to  Frank  and  Lydia  Miller.  Frank  had  been  at  work 
all  day  at  his  place  of  employment.  Lydia  had  been  at  work 
all  day  at  home,  making  economical  and  wholesome  pies  and 
cakes  for  the  children.  Lydia  could  not  be  parsimonious  on 
New  Year's  Eve.  It  was  near  sundown  when  Lydia  completed 
the  baking  and  cleared  away  her  pastry  tables,  &c.,  and  set 
her  kitchen  in  perfect  order.  It  was  a  cosy,  comfortable 
kitchen,  that  of  Lydia  Miller's — the  floor  covered  with  a  dark- 
coloured  domestic  carpet,  the  whole  of  it  manufactured  by  her 
mother — the  windows  shaded  with  dark  chintz  curtains — the 
stove  glowing  hot,  diffusing  a  delightful  heat  through  the 
room — the  pleasant,  homely  smell  of  freshly-baked  cakes  and 
pies — the  prattle  of  the  little  toddling  two  years  old  boy,  the 
crowing  of  the  babe  in  the  cradle — and  Lydia' s  pretty,  petite 
form  and  light  step  as  she  tripped  about  the  room — now 
Betting  out  the  table,  laying  the  cloth,  and  placing  the  waiter, 
cups  and  saucers  upon  it — now  stopping  to  chirrup  to  the 
baby — now  to  answer  the  prattle  of  the  boy.  Alas  !  that  one 
80  pretty  and  so  good  should  be  so  weak — so  unreflecting ! 
Lydia  had  finished  setting  her  supper-table,  adding  a  couple 
of  pies  and  a  plate  of  gingerbread  to  the  common  staple  fare 


i'HK  FATAL  GLASS  OF  BRANDT.     2t7 

jf  br  :ad  and  butter  and  cold  meat,  and  had  set  her  coffee  to 
boil,  and  was  now  all  ready  to  receive  her  darling,  merry- 
hoarted  Frank — when,  growing  childishly  impatient  of  his 
3<  mewhat  protracted  stay,  in  order  to  kill  the  time  and  to  do 
a  sisterly  kindness,  she  filled  a  little  basket  with  gingerbread 
t  >  take  to  her  nephews,  the  little  Bohrers,  next  door.  Slipping 
the  handle  of  the  basket  upon  her  wrist,  and  taking  the  babe 
in  her  arms,  and  calling  the  little  boy  to  toddle  after  her,  she 
went  into  the  next  cottage.  The  shop  was  already  lighted  up, 
and  Bohrer,  behind  the  counter,  was  waiting  on  a  crowd  of 
customers.  Lydia  passed  in  and  through  the  shop  quickly, 
drawing  her  little  boy  after  her.  Ellen's  parlour  behind  the 
shop  was  also  lighted  up,  and  several  of  her  neighbours  were 
with  her.  Among  others,  her  widowed  sister,  Mary  Fairfield. 
It  was  evident  that  Ellen  had  got  through  supper  early,  that 
Bohrer  might  have  time  to  wait  upon  the  unusual  number  of 
Customers  that  New  Year's  Eve  would  send  to  his  shop 
Reader! — Ellen  looks  very  differently  now  upon  this  New 
Year's  Eve  than  she  did  upon  the  New  Year's  Eve  of  six 
years  ago.  Ellen's  face  and  figure  have  lost  that  delicacy  of 
form  and  complexion,  and  that  intelligence  and  refinement  of 
expression  that  once  distinguished  her — she  has  a  coarse, 
sensual,  and  apathetic  look  as  she  sits  there  gossipping  with 
her  neighbours.  Just  as  Lydia  came  tripping  in  with  her 
childish  and  graceful  bustle,  and  after  smiling  and  nodding 
"  Good-evening"  around  the  circle,  had  placed  her  basket  of 
.jakes  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  fluttered  down  upon  a  seat  by 
<he  side  of  her  sister  Ellen,  a  voice  was  beard  in  the  shop  ex- 
•laiming  above  the  hum  of  conversation — 

"  Brew  some  for  the  women,  Bohrer !  Come,  let's  brew 
some  immediately  and  take  it  in." 

And  soon  there  was  a  tap  at  the  little  back  parlour  door, 

and  to  Ellen's  cheerful  "  Come  in,"  entered  Bohrer,  with  a 

email  huud-waiter,  npon  which  stood  six  glasses  of  brandy  punch. 

He  took  it  up  first  to  Lydia,  and  lifting  a  glass  smilingly 

W 


248  THJS     THREE     S  T  S  T  E  R  S. 

offered  it  to  her.  With  childish  glee  Lydia  seized  it,  raised 
it  an  instant  to  the  light,  her  eyes  flashing  with  mirih,  gave 
the  "  Happy  New  Year/'  and  placed  it  to  her  lips.  Alas  ! 
for  the  self-indulgent  spirit  that  could  not  deny  itself.  Alas ! 
for  the  thoughtlessness  that  could  not  profit  by  experienco. 
Bohrer  then  took  the  waiter  around  in  succession  to  all  the 
women,  until  each  was  supplied  with  the  New  Year's  glasa 
of  punch — all,  except  Mary  Fairfield,  who  steadily  declined  it. 
I  wish  you  to  remember  these  facts,  namely:  that  Lydia'a 
taste  for  ardent  spirits  was  hereditary — had  been  formed  by 
her  mother's  immoderate  use  of  alcohol  during  the  period  of 
her  nursing,  that  Ellen's  appetite  for  spirituous  liquors  had 
been  contracted  by  the  constant  seeing,  handling,  smelling  it, 
and  by  the  example  of  her  husband — that  Mary  Fairfiold,  the 
•widow,  having  had  neither  the  misfortune  of  hereditary  taste, 
nor  of  constant  temptation,  was  a  total-abstinence  woman  from 
unperverted  nature,  rather  than  from  principle,  for  Mary  Fair- 
field  had  had  none  of  that  bitter  experience  which  inspires 
such  horror  of  alcohol  in  its  innocent  victims — and  this  ex- 
plains the  reason  why,  while  refusing  to  touch  it  herself,  she 
abstained  from  all  attempts  to  influence  the  other  women  of 
the  company — <and  this  shows  the  necessity,  vphile  for  its  OUM 
sake  we  keep  the  appetite  of  a  child  unperverted  by  the  taste 
of  alcohol,  we  should,  for  the  sake  of  others,  endeavour  to 
form  in  him  or  her  that  missionary  spirit  of  total  abstinence 
which  will  influence  those  that  are  in  danger,  which  will  use»-k 
and  save  those  that  are  lost"  Soon  the  exhilarating  effects 
qf  the  punch  were  felt,  and  exhibited  in  the  increased  gayety 
of  tlip  little  company — from  smiling  softly  and  conversing 
quietly,  they  grew  Doisy,  talked  aloud,  laughed  out  in  peals 
of  merriment — still  this  was  not  intoxication,  only  cxhilam- 
tion,  such  exhilaration  as  may  also  sometimes  be  produced  in 
fashionable  drawing-rooms  and  saloons,  by  costly  cordials,  wi.  es 
*nd  liqueurs. 

lu  the  nie-in  time,  Frank  Miller  had  returned  from  woi  Ic, 


THE  FATAL  GLASS  OF  BRANDT.     249 

and  entering  his  bouse,  and  passing  on  to  tbe  kite-lien,  found 
all  tilings  comfortably  prepared  for  bis  reception,  and  sat  down 
to  wait  for  bis  wife,  supposing  ber  to  be  up  stairs  putting  tbe 
cbildren  to  bed,  or  somewhere  about  tbe  bouse.  But  wher. 
half-an-hour  bad  passed  and  she  had  not  returned,  F.ank 
rightly  concluded  that  she  had  gone  "in  to  sister  Ellen's,' 
and  be  determined  to  follow  her.  He  took  tbe  coffee-pot  off 
the  stove  when  it  was  just  going  to  boil  over,  and  setting  it 
where  it  would  keep  warm,  he  shut  up  the  kitchen  and  went. 
He  entered  tbe  back  parlour  of  Bohrer's  just  as  the  company 
were  in  tbe  height  of  their  enjoyment.  Lydia,  seeing  him. 
come  in,  set  down  her  glass,  and  springing  with  youthful 
eagerness  to  meet  him,  exclaimed  in  tones  of  affected  com- 
plaint. 

"  There,  I  knew  it !  I  never  can  step  in  at  a  neighbour's 
house  but  what  Frank  must  follow  me.  Isn't  it  too  bard  ?" 
and  drew  him — both  laughing — away  to  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"Frank  !  take  something  to  drink?"  asked  Bohrer,  putting 
bis  bead  in  at  the  door. 

"No !  no,  thank  you,"  said  Frank,  lifting  his  boy  upon  his 
knee  to  cover  a  certain  embarrassment  he  felt  in  being  tbe 
only  one  of  the  circle  that  refused.  Bohrer,  not  hearing  big 
reply,  or  not  believing  his  sincerity,  had  withdrawn  bis  head 
from  the  door  for  a  moment,  and  soon  entered  the  room  with  a 
glass  of  brandy  and  water  on  a  waiter. 

"  I  believe,  Frank,  this  is  your  drink,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Bohrer,  I  would  not  choose  anything,  if  you 
please." 

"  Nonsense,  Frank  !  you  are  dull,  it  will  wake  you  up — you 
nre  tirel,  it  will  restore  jour  strength — you  are  cold,  it  will 
warm  you." 

"'ihank  you,  Bohrer,  but  I  must  go  bcfmc  soon,  and  then 
our  supper  is  rca»ly,  you  know,  and  with  tbe  warm  stove  auj 
supper  I  shall  be  recruited." 

"  Well !  I  haven't  time  to  pav  >oi»i>iiments.     I  must  return 


250  TIIE     THREE     SISTERS. 

to  my  customers,  but  I  shall  set  this  down  by  your  side,  and 
if  you  change  your  mind,  why  it  is  at  hand,  that's  all ;"  and 
doing  as  he  said,  Bohrer  left  the  room.  By  this  time  the  at- 
tention of  all  the  little  circle  was  drawn  to  Frank.  Frank  felt 
tha^  the  "  public  sentiment"  of  this  company  was  against  him 
Lydia  took  up  the  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  and  with  sincere 
_but  deplorably  mistaken  affection  pressed  it  upon  his  accept- 
ance, saying, 

"  Take  it,  dear  Frank  !  Oh,  do  take  it — just  take  a  little — 
a  little  won't  hurt  you — it  was  because  you  always  took  too 
much  that  it  hurt  you;  but  a  little  won't  hurt  you.  Now  do, 
Frank,  for  my  sake — I  cannot  enjoy  my  punch  a  bit,  unless 
you  take  something." 

The  fine  aroma  of  the  hot  brandy  was  arising  beneath  his 
nose,  entering  his  nostrils,  stimulating  the  long-dormant  but 
not  extinct  appetite — the  sweet,  tender,  blooming  face  of  hia 
wife  was  smiling  up  into  his  eyes,  pleading  with  him.  Frank 
took  the  glass  of  brandy,  and  with  a  light  laugh  turned  it  off. 

"  After  all,  I  have  not  broken  the  pledye,  for  I  never 
happened  to  take  that — I  only  took  a  resolution,"  laughed 
Frank,  holding  out  his  glass  to  Bohrer,  who,  having  despatched 
all  his  customers,  had  returned  to  the  little  parlour. 

"  Some  more,  Frank  1" 

"  Yes,  Bjhrer,  if  you  please — a  little." 

"  That  is  a  good  fellow  I"  said  Bohrer,  as  though  Frank  had 
conferred  upon  him  the  greatest  favour  in  the  world,  and  soon 
returned  with  the  glass  replenished. 

"  Do  you  know,  Lydia,"  said  Frank,  when,  after  getting 
through  his  second  drink,  he  became  confidential  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  his  neighbours'  faults,  "  do  you  know  that  J.  am  afraid 
that  poor  Bohrer  is  on  the  road  to  ruin  ?" 

"  How  so,  Frank  ?" 

"He  is  on  the  road  to  ruin!"  replied  Frank,  with  a  myste- 
rious air. 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGH-CAST     HOUSE.          251 

"  Dear  Frank,  how  you  scare  one !  What  is  the  matter 
with  him  ?" 

"  Tie  drinks  too  much,"  said  Frank,  with  the  oracular  air  of 
incipient  intoxication.  "Don't  you  see  how  bloated  he  13 
getting?  Don't  you  srs  how  red  his  nose  is?" 

"  Why,  I  never  thought  about  that — but  so  it  is  indeed." 

"  Oertainly,  and  his  breath  is  like  the  bung  of  a  whiskey- 
cask." 

"  Yes,  it  is  so,  always — but  I  nevor  thought  of  it  before — 
he  ought  not  to  drink  too  much,  he  oaght  to  be  temperate." 

At  that  time  how  little  Lydia  understood  what  she  was 
talking  about !  Frank  Miller's  judgment  of  Bohrer  was  per- 
fectly  correct.  He  was  one  of  those  plethoric  subjects  who 
could  go  on  for  a  long  time  imbibing  and  absorbing  liquor 
until  his  very  blood  was  "liquid  fire,"  and  even  perish  by 
spontaneous  combustion,  without  ever  becoming  dead-drunk, 
or  who  after  a  long  course  of  such  life  might  suddenly  fall  into 
habits  of  beastly  intoxication. 

And  Frank  Miller !  his  sight  that  was  now  so  clear  to  dis- 
cern the  danger  of  his  brother,  soon  became  so  blinu  to  his 
own !  Alas  for  the  self-indulgence,  the  thoughtlessness,  the 
mistaken  tenderness  of  the  youthful  wife  !  Alas  !  for  the  weak- 
ness and  instability  of  the  young  husband !  Alas,  for  the 
fatal  glass  of  brandy  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   LITTLE    ROUGH-CAST    HOUSE. 

THE  reader  knows  that  a  relapse  is  more  dangerous,  more 
rapid,  and  more  frequently  fatal  in  its  consequence,  than  a 
first  attack  of  disease.  As  every  resistance  of  temptation 


252  THE     THREE     SISTERS 

augments  the  moral  force,  so  every  yielding  to  it  weakens  the 
power  of  resistance  in  the  tempted.  It  were  a  painful  and  un- 
gracious task  to  trace,  step  by  step,  the  downward  course  of 
poor  Frank  Miller — how  soon  after  breaking  his  good  resolu- 
tion by  drinking  that  one  glass  of  brandy,  he  grew  to  drinking 
occasionally,  then  frequently,  then  habitually,  then  immode- 
rately— until  his  work  was  abandoned,  his  family  neglected,  and 
at  last,  in  the  course  of  twelve  months,  himself  a  confirmed 
drunkard  !  Too  often  in  real  life,  and  in  fiction,  has  this  dis- 
gusting pageantry,  this  sickening  procession  of  self-indulgence, 
intemperance,  idleness,  poverty,  sickness,  suffering,  degrada- 
tion— the  funeral  train  of  domestic  happiness,  passed  before 
the  reader's  tortured  eye.  Let  me  spare  myself  the  pain  of 
telling  it,  you  the  pain  of  hearing  it. 

It  would  cost  us  less  suffering  from  sympathy,  but  far  more 
disgust  to  trace  the  fall  of  Bohrer,  whose  fate  seemed  only  a 
just  retribution  for  his  sins.  He  it  was,  who,  when  "  The 
Three  Cottages"  were  each  the  beautiful  abode  of  industry — 
economy,  and  neatness — of  love,  peace,  religion — were  all 
united  m  the  bonds  of  family  affection — he  it  was,  who,  for 
the  sake  of  making  more  money,  brought  the  foe  that  should 
ruin  the  families,  the  firebrand  that  should  ignite  and  lay  waste 
tiieir  homes. 

It  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  at  the  end  of  three  years  two  of 
'  The  Three  Cottages"  had  changed  owners.  Bohrer  still  re- 
naming as  a  tenant  in  the  house  he  had  been  compelled  to 
sell — and  now  habitually  intoxicated.  Ellen  carrying  on  tho 
small  shop,  that  still  decreased  in  stock,  and  that  failed  to 
supply  enough  to  support  their  family,  as  well  as  she  could. 
Once  their  furniture  was  taken  for  rent,  and  nothing  remained 
in  their  once  comfortable  cottage  except  the  two  beds,  the 
three  chairs,  and  the  cooking  utensils,  that  the  law  could 
not  touch.  Still  Ellen,  upon  whom  the  sole  care  of  the  family 
had  fallen,  clung  to  the  small  shop-stand  as  to  her  last  hope 
vf  support.  Now  that  she  was  the  sole  dependence  of  her 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGH-CAST     HOUSE.          253 

family,  her  strong  maternal  love  came  to  her  aid,  and  enables 
her  to  throw  oft  entirely  the  false  appetite  for  alcoholic  stimu- 
lus, that  with  her  had  never  yet  approached  intemperance,  for 
Ellen  was  of  that  sound  health  and  of  that  lymphatic  tempera- 
ment that  might  go  on  a  long  time  in  the  use  of  alcohol 
before  falling  into  that  excess  to  which  other  organizat  ocs  arc 
more  liable. 

About  this  time  the  war  with  Mexico  broke  out,  and 
Bdirer  was  one  of  the  first  that  volunteered  in  the  service. 
Inured  as  Ellen  had  lately  become  to  suffering,  she  could  not 
see  her  husband  depart  upon  a  distant,  a  dangerous,  and  un- 
holy service,  without  bitter  tears  and  earnest  remonstrances. 
Even  with  her  phlegmatic  nature  there  was  a  passionate  vehe- 
mence, an  impetuosity  in  her  manner,  as,  after  seeing  him  em- 
bi'.rk  with  the  troops,  she  returned  to  her  shop,  seized  and 
threw  away  all  the  liquor  that  the  stubborn  will  of  Bohrer  had 
persisted  in  keeping  in  the  shop.  There  was  almost  madness 
in  the  vengeance  and  the  energy  with  which  she  destroyed 
every  tumbler,  wine-glass,  and  decanter  about  the  shop.  Then, 
with  the  energy  of  one  who  wishes  to  lose  regret  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  deep  mental  sorrow  in  physical  weariness,  Ellen 
went  to  work  and  cleared  her  shop  and  house  of  every  vestige 
of  the  enemy.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days  Ellen  had  restored 
something  like  its  old  order  if  not  its  old  comfort  to  her  home 
— sooth  to  say  the  cottage  was  all  the  cleaner,  quieter,  and 
more  cheerful,  for  the  absence  of  the  master.  Ellen's  neigh- 
bours did  not  scruple  to  say  among  themselves,  "  She  does  a 
great  deal  better  without  the  worthless  fellow  than  with  him." 
But  they  did  not  know  half  the  difficulties  that  still  surrounded 
Ellen  Bohrer.  How  many  small  debts  she  owed  in  every  di- 
rection. How  far  in  arrearage  for  rent  she  was.  How  very 
small  the  proceeds  of  her  little  shop  were.  Ellen  unfortunately 
had  no  skill  in  needle-work,  and  it  requires  a  woman  of  a 
great  deal  of  skill  as  well  as  of  energy  and  perseverance  to 
push  herself  into  a  circle  of  customers  where  there  is  such  great 


254  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

competition.  And  Ellen,  with  many  amiable  traits  of  charac- 
ter, had  none  of  these  sterner  qualities.  So  with  her  best 
efforts,  poor  Ellon  Bohrer  still  slid  down  and  down  into  deeper 
poverty. 

Affairs  had  gone  still  worse  with  Frank  Miller  and  his 
family.  lie  also,  as  I  said,  had  been  compelled  to  sell  his 
house  to  pay  his  debts,  and  to  get  money  to  buy  bread  and — 
liouor.  In  the  mean  time,  every  year  had  brought  thorn  a 
new  child,  an  alternate  boy  and  girl,  until  now  Lydia  was  the 
mother  of  four  children — Harry,  Lizzy,  Tommy,  and  Milly 
the  baby.  Frank  was  almost  always  intoxicated,  or  just  re- 
covering from  it.  It  is  horrible  to  contemplate  this  in  the 
generous,  cheerful,  noble-hearted  Frank.  Let  us  turn  from 
the  picture,  and  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  that  was  beautiful 
even  in  this  picture  of  ruin.  Frank  never  was  unkind  to  his 
wife  or  children.  With  all  the  wrong  his  degrading  habits 
inflicted  upon  them,  he  loved  them  still,  he  loved  them  with 
more  tenderness,  the  tenderness  of  remorse,  of  pity — as  he 
witnessed  their  privations.  Frank  seemed  the  victim  of  an 
inevitable  disease  rather  than  of  a  degrading  vice.  Alas  !  that 
he  could  not  shake  off  the  spell  that  enchained  him  :  alas  !  that 
he  could  not  awake  from  the  apathy  that  bound  him,  the  self- 
indulgence  that  enslaved  him !  There  was  nothing  on  earth 
so  eloquent  as  the  penitence,  the  lamentations  of  this  once 
noble  but  now  fallen  nature.  Forget  himself  even  in  intoxica- 
tion and  abuse  Lydia !  or  ill-treat  his  children  !  He  who  was 
drunk  one  half,  and  penitent  the  other  half,  would  have  died 
sooner  than  have  spoken,  or  looked  unkindly  at  the  wife  and 
family  his  conduct,  was  nevertheless  reducing  to  paupcrage. 
And  Lydia,  much  as  she  suffered,  she  never  reproached  him. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  she  had  a  right  to-do  so.  The  right  to 
do  so,  however,  is  seldom  taken  into  consideration  by  those 
who  indulge  in  reproaches.  But  if  Lydia  was  too  gentle  to 
reproach  him,  she  was  also  too  weak  to  reclaim  him.  Lydia 
conld  only  we/>p  when  her  children  were  hungry  or  cold,  ana 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGH-CAST     HOUSE  255 

there  was  no  money  to  buy  wood  or  food.  Their  rent  also  was 
far  in  arrears — their  household  furniture  had,  in  the  course  of 
the  last  three  years,  gradually  disappeared.  Every  article  of 
value  about  the  house  had,  in  succession,  be<;n  sold  to  purchase 
necessaries.  All  the  nice  parlour  furniture  vas  gone — all  the 
pure-white  chamber  furniture,  the  gift  of  her  dead  mother, 
had  been  disposed  of — everything  not  positively  necessary  to 
their  health,  had  vanished,  except  the  home-made  carpet  on 
the  kitchen  floor.  It  was  the  work  of  her  mother's  hands, 
and  Lydia  could  not  part  with  it.  Thus  the  autumn  of  1846 
found  them.  It  was  one  day  in  November,  that  Frank  had 
sauntered  down  to  the  Navy  Yard  with  his  hands  lazily  stuck 
into  his  pockets,  and  his  hat  crushed  over  one  eye,  with  that 
undeniable  look  of  worthlessness  which  habitual  intoxication 
gives — with  a  vague  idea  of  procuring  work  somehow,  or  some- 
where. Frank's  appearat^e  was  so  much  against  him  as  to 
make  it  probable  that  even  where  workmen  were  in  demand, 
his  services  would  be  rejected.  Frank  of  course  was  unsuc- 
cessful— and  upon  the  fact  of  his  disappointment,  he  went  to 
the  neatest  tavern  and  drank  to  inebriation.  It  was  in  the 
swaggering  stage  of  his  drunkenness  that  he  was  met  by  a  re- 
cruiting sergeant,  and  under  the  influence  of  intoxication  that 
he  volunteered  to  go  to  Mexico.  Not  to  lose  his  new  recruit, 
the  sergeant  took  him  at  once  to  the  Marine  Garrison,  where 
the  company  in  which  he  had  enlisted,  were  quartered. 

That  night  poor  Lydia,  for  the  first  time  in  her  married  life, 
was  left  all  night  alone,  with  her  children.  She  sat  up,  await- 
ing Frank's  return,  until  long  after  twelve  o'clock,  then  slowly 
and  sadly  undressing  herself,  she  lay  down,  but  could  not 
sleep,  but  lay  there  wondering,  fearing,  and  counting  the  dark 
and  heavy  hours  as  they  slowly,  slowly  brought  on  the  dawu. 
She  arose  early,  dressed  herself  and  her  poor  children,  set  her 
poor  house  in  order,  and  got  her  miserable  breakfast  of  "sreak 
coffee,  without  milk,  and  corn  bread  ready.  She  determined, 
immediately  after  breakfast,  to  take  her  four  children  in  to  her 


25f>  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

sister  Mary's,  leave  them  there,  and  go  in  search  of  Frank, 
among  his  usual  haunts.  But  she  scarcely  had  time  to  finish 
her  breakfast,  and  clear  away  the  table,  when  she  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in."  said  Lydia,  supposing  it  to  be  one  cf  her 
sisters  or  oae  of  their  children,  who  were  always  running  in 
and  out.  But  a  young  man,  a  friend  of  her  husband,  obeyed 
her  summons  and  entered  the  kitchen.  lie  looked  gravely  as 
he  came  in.  By  a  sudden  presentiment  Lydia  felt  that  evil 
tidings  were  coming. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  in  a  sinking  voice,  as  she  herself 
dropped  into  a  chair.  The  young  man  took  a  seat,  set  his  hut 
down  by  his  side,  and  said  in  a  hesitating  tone, 

<:  I  have  a  message  for  you,  Mrs.  Miller." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  A  message  from  your  husband." 

"  Well  ?"  reiterated  Lydia,  turning  pale. 

"  He — he  has  enlisted." 

"  Oh  !  my  God,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  wife,  clasping  her 
hands  firmly  together,  and  gazing  vacantly  into  the  face  of  her 
informant. 

"  His  company  go  this  afternoon  in  the  cars,  and  he  wishes 
you  to  meet  him  at  the  car-office  with  the  children,  that  he 
may  take  leave  of  you  and  them." 

The  young  man  spoke  rapidly,  thickly.  A  slight,  half-sup- 
pressed scream  burst  from  Lydia's  lips — she  arose,  sank  down 
again,  again  attempted  to  leave  her  chair,  and  fainting,  fell 
forward  upon  her  face. 

The  young  man  hastened  to  raise  her.  The  children,  startled 
from  their  play  in  the  corner,  ran  to  their  mother,  and  seeing 
her  apparently  dead,  set  up  a  lamentable  wail  around  her. 
The  young  man  laid  Lydia  upon  an  old  lounge,  and  hurried 
out  into  the  next  house  to  summon  her  sister  Ellen.  He  ex- 
plained the  cause  of  Lydia's  sudden  illness,  in  a  few  hasty 
words,  ard  soon  Ellen  and  Mary  hastened  to  her  aid.  Thev 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGHCAST     HOUSE.          257 

found  Lydia  already  recovering  from  the  swoon  m  which  her 
we;ik  nerves  aud  habitual  want  of  self-command  had  permitted 
this  ill  news  to  throw  her. 

"O'i,  &ary !"  she  said,  as  her  sisters  entered,  "you  are 
strong  and  you  are  wise.  Oh,  Mary,  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do 
— what  can  1  do  '/" 

"  Cannot  Frank  get  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  hours  to 
come  and  see  her  ?"  inquired  Mary  of  the  young  man. 

"  No,  ma'am,  by  no  means;  the  troops  are  to  leave  the  city 
in  this  evening's  train  of  cars,  and  the  strictest  watch  is  ever 
kept  for  fear  of  desertions  from  the  ranks.  The  only  way  in 
which  Mrs.  Miller  can  see  her  husband,  is  to  go  to  the  car 
office  and  wait  till  the  troops  arrive  there." 

Here  Lydia's  sobs  broke  out  again,  and  her  children  crowded 
around  her,  her  eldest  boy,  Harry,  throwing  his  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  hugging  her  tightly,  roared  out  for  sympathy. 

"  Is  there  no  possible  way  of  procuring  his  discharge  ?" 
again  asked  Mary  of  the  youth. 

"  You  might  try  the  Secretary  to-day,  ma'am ;  though  1 
candidly  tell  you  that  the  chance  of  getting  him  off  is  a  poor 
one." 

"  Oh,  Mary,  try,  Mary;  dear  Mary,  try  I"  sobbed  and  plead 
Lydia. 

"  I  will  go — I  will  go  at  once,"  said  Mary.  "  Keep  up  your 
heart,  my  dear  Lydia,  something  may  yet  be  done;"  and  she 
hurried  home  to  prepare  for  her  affectionate  mission. 

To  give  tie  reader  a  sample  of  the  manner  in  which  poor 
women  were  treated,  perhaps  necessarily  so  treated,  I  will 
very  briefly  relate  the  interview  of  Mary  Fairfield  with  the 
dignitaries  of  the  Government.  Arrived  at  the  War  Depart- 
ment, she  went  up  the  great  stone  stairs,  and  timidly  entered 
the  great  marble-paved  hall,  flanked  with  mahogany  doors  lead- 
ing into  the  various  rooms,  and  labelled  above  in  gold  letters: 
"OFFICE  OF  THE  ADJUTANT-GENERAL,"  "OFFICE  OF  THE 
SECRETARY  OF  WAR,"  etc.,  and  terminating  in  a  great  stone 


?5S  THE     THREE     BISTERS. 

staircase,  with  iron  balustrades  leading  up  into  the  secor.d 
story.  Mary  felt  a  little  awed  by  n3r  loneliness  in  the  great 
reverberating  halls,  and  a  little  terrified  at  the  idea  of  an  in- 
terview with  the  great  men  of  the  plart,e ;  her  heart  beat  thickly 
She  had  scarcely  entered,  however,  before  she  was  met  by  a 
messenger,  who  abruptly  asked  her, 

"  Whom  do  you  want  to  see  ?" 

"  His  honour,  the  Secretary  of  War  if  you  please,"  answered 
she. 

"  Oh  !  your  husband  is  in  Mexicc    isn't  he  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  your  father,  or  youi  brother,  or  your  sen  is  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  none  of  my  kin  are  ii  Mexico,"  replied  Mary 
whose  modest  deportment  and  sim^  ie  widow's  dress  was  be- 
ginning to  win  upon  the  case-hardeu  .d  official. 

"  Very  well ;  the  Secretary  has  n  »t  come  in  yet  j  but  you 
can  see  the  chief  clerk,  and  the  reason  of  my  stopping  you 
was,  that  not  a  day  passes,  but  what  some  wife  comes  here  to 
plead  for  her  husband's  discharge — or  some  widow  to  weep  for 
her  son's  dismissal  from  service  j  and,  in  short,  the  Secretary 
has  been  so  worried  by  such  applications,  that  orders  have 
been  issued  to  stop  all  such  petitioners  at  the  door." 

"  Still,  I  think  that  all  such  petitioners  should  at  least  have 
a  hearing,  even  if  their  petitions  are  not  granted — for  there  is 
no  telling  what  cruelty  and  injustice  may  be  inflicted  by  re- 
fusing to  receive  the  appeal  of  such  an  applicant." 

"  It  can't  be  done,  ma'am.  You  see,  young  men,  and  for 
that  matter  old  men,  filled  with  what  they  call  patriotic  ardour 
— a  thirst  for  military  glory — enlist  in  a  hurry  and  go  to 
Mexico,  where  the  enthusiasm  is  taken  out  of  them  by  cow- 
hide boots,  leather  stocks,  short  rations,  long  marches,  and 
drillings.  They  want  to  come  home,  write  and  work  upon  (he 
sympathies  of  the  women  folks,  who  come  up  here  and  worry 
the  Secretary — that's  the  reason  I  stopped  you,  you  know.  1 
thought  yo'1  had  somebody  in  Mexico." 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGH-CAST     HOUSE  259 

Mary  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  explain  as  she  followed  the 
messenger  to  a  door,  which  he  opened,  saying, 

"  The  office  of  the  chief  clerk;"  and  as  she  entered,  closing 
the  door  behind  her  he  retired. 

Mary  dropped  a  respectful  curtsy.  A  gentleman  arose 
from  his  seat  at  a  large  writing  table,  and  urbanely  handed 
her  a  chair.  Poor  Mary  tremblingly  took  the  seat,  she  was  so 
nervous,  and  this  politeness  embarrassed  her  as  much  as  an 
opposite  deportment  could  have  done.  She  began  in  a  hesi- 
tating tone  and  told  the  object  of  her  visit.  The  gentleman 
attended  with  a  kind  and  sympathizing  expression  of  counte- 
nance. At  the  end  of  her  recital  he  informed  her  that  he 
himself  could  do  nothing  in  the  case,  that  the  Secretary  was 

ill  at  his  house,  but  that  she  might  see  Genera) ,  who 

might  be  able  to  serve  her  in  this  affair.  Then  he  directed 
her  where  to  find  the  office  of  the  Adjutant-General,  and  as 
Mary  arose  to  leave  the  room,  he  kindly  opened  the  door  and 
called  a  messenger  to  attend  her.  Greatly  encouraged  by  this 

kindness,  Mary  went  into  General 's  room  with  strong 

hrpes  of  success.  In  an  ante-room  she  found  a  youth  who 
told,  her  that  the  general  was  out,  but  would  be  in  in  the  course 
of  a  few  moments,  and  opening  a  second  door,  showed  her  into 
*n  inner  room.  Mary  sat  down  and  had  ample  time  to  benefit 
by  the  comfortable  coal  fire,  to  admire  the  rich  carpet  and 
tables,  the  easy  chairs,  and  the  stacks  of  flags  of  various  sizes 
and  colours  .with  which  the  room  was  adorned,  before  the  door 
opened,  and  a  little  old  man  with  closely  curling  red  hair,  and 
a  half-developed  or  half-suppressed  strut,  one  could  not  tell 
which,  inarched  into  the  room  with  a  "  Well !  what  do  you 
want  ?"  sort  of  expression  upon  his  countenance.  Mary  arose, 
curtsied,  and  resumed  her  silence.  She  had  lost  her  presence 
of  mind  again — the  appearance  of  this  little  man  was  so  un- 
promising— she  felt  her  task  an  almost  hopeless  one.  Tho 
General  had  thrown  himself  into  his  official  chair,  wheeled  it 
around  upon  a  pivot,  crossed  his  little  legs,  placed  his  open  palms 


•2GO  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

upon  his  limbs,  and  looked  at  Mary  with  an  expression  of  iu- 
quiry  that  was  intended  to  be  arrogant,  but  was  only  imperti- 
nent. Mary  begged  pardon  for  intrusion,  and  again  commenced 
her  little  tale.  He  arrested  her  narrative  before  she  had  gone  on 
two  minutes  by  exclaiming  flippantly  in  his  high,  keen,  sharp; 
rasping  tone, 

"  Ah  !  I  know  it !  I  know  all  about  it !  You  needn't  tell 
me  the  rest !  Heard  the  whole  story  twenty  times !  every 
week  for  the  last  year !  f  Sole  dependence  of  his  widowed 
mother !'  Know  all  about  it !  know  all  about  it  I" 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interrupied  Mary,  her  gentle  spirit  rising 
against  this  natural  born  morris-dancer,  shuffled  by  chance  into 
"  a  little  brief  authority."  "  Excuse  me,  sir,  he  has  a  young 
wife  with  four  children,  and  his  wife  is  as  incapable  of  taking 
care  of  herself  and  family,  as  is  the  babe  upon  her  bosom." 

"  That  is  his  business,  not  mine — he  should  have  thought 
of  that  himself  when  he  enlisted." 

"  But,  sir,  he  was  not  master  of  himself  when  he  enlisted — 
he  was — " 

Mary  blushed,  and  became  silent. 

"Was  what?"  maliciously  inquired  the  manikin. 

"  Under  the  influence  of  liquor,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Then  the  army — active  military  service,  is  the  very  place 
to  cure  him  of  the  propensity,"  said  the  General,  rising,  and 
holding  open  the  door  for  his  visiter's  departure. 

Mary  followed  this  rather  decided  hint,  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  she  returned  home,  and 
conveyed  to  Lydia  the  news  of  her  failure.  Lydia  had  wept 
all  day;  she  was  now  lying  exhausted  upon  the  old  lo  nge, 
and  Ellen  was  taking  care  of  her  house  and  childien,  and 
making  vain  efforts  to  soothe  her  distress.  The  entrance  of 
Mary  with  her  evil  tidings,  brought  on  a  new  burst  of  sor 
row,  though  Lydia  persisted  in  saying,  dismally,  that  she  had 
expected  nothing  else.  In  the  afternoon  Lydia  arose,  madf 
au  effort,  and  dressed  herself  and  her  children,  to  go  to  the 


THE     LITTLE     ROUGH-CAST     HOUSE.          201 

car-office  to  take  leave  of  the  husband  and  father.  Lydia  was 
BO  weak  from  having  wept  all  day — so  thoroughly  incapable 
of  walking,  that  Mary  Fairfield  hired  a  hack,  placed  her  and 
her  children  in  it,  and  entering  it  also  herself,  accompanied 
her  sister  to  the  place  of  parting.  They  alighted  from  the 
hack  at  the  car  office,  and  remained  watching  for  the  advance 
of  the  troop.  Several  other  women  were  there  upon  the  same 
sad  errand.  Lydia  stood  trembling,  supported  upon  the  arm 
of  her  sister  Mary.  At  last  the  music  arose  upon  the  air  from 
afar,  down  towards  the  Capitol,  and  soon  the  blue  coats,  nodding 
plumes,  and  flashing  arms  of  the  soldiers  were  seen  coming 
up  the  Avenue.  Lydia  made  two  or  three  springs,  as  though 
she  would  have  run  to  meet  the  troop,  and  singled  out  Frank. 
But  Mary  held  her  fast.  Arrived  at  the  depot,  the  soldiers 
were  permitted,  under  certain  restrictions,  to  take  leave  of  their 
assembled  friends.  Unmindful  of  the  gathered  crowd,  at  the 
first  sight  of  him,  Lydia  had  sprung  forward  and  thrown  her- 
self, sobbing  convulsively,  upon  the  bosom  of  her  husband. 
Frank  drew  her  away,  behind  the  shelter  of  a  stack  of  boxes, 
held  her  weeping  to  his  heart,  kissed  her  again  and  again, 
while  his  own  tears  fell  fast  upon  her  face — then  gently  re- 
leasing himself  from  her  feeble  but  frantic  clasp,  he  called 
their  children,  raised  them  one  by  one  in  his  arms,  kissed  his 
farewell  upon  their  innocent  lips,  blessed  them,  prayed  for 
them,  wept  over  them,  and — at  the  word  of  recall — thrusting 
his  bounty  money  hastily  into  the  hands  of  Lydia,  strained 
her  once  more  to  his  bosom,  and  broke  away  to  rejoin  his  ranks, 
loaving  his  wife  fainting  in  the  arms  of  her  sister.  An  hour 
from  this,  Lydia  was  lying,  half  stunned  with  grief,  upon  hex 
bed,  at  home  and  the  troops  in  the  cars  were  nearly  half  way 
to  Baltimore 

It  was  a  week  before  Lydia  Miller,  the  once  petted  and 
spoiled  child  of  both  mother,  sisters,  and  husband,  could  exert 
herself  to  do  anything  for  her  family.  Lydia,  enervated  bj 
indulgence  and  self-indulgence,  was  by  the  first  shock  of  thi* 


262  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

separation  rendered  totally  unequal  to  the  exigencies  ot  lief 
position.  In  the  second  week  the  two  older  sisters  held  a  con- 
sultation as  to  what  was  to  be  done  with  and  for  this  youngest, 
this  child  of  the  family.  The  sisters,  as  the  reader  knows, 
were  poor,  very  poor.  Mary  Fairfield,  the  widow,  the  seam- 
stress, the  total  abstinence  woman,  being  the  only  one  who  had 
held  on  to  her  dowry,  the  cottage  and  lot.  And  in  passing, 
let  me  say  that  this  fact  i?  worthy  of  remark,  that  while  Lydia 
and  Ellen  had  the  help,  or  ought  to  have  had  the  help  of  their 
husbands,  with  the  superior  wages  that  men's  labour  receives, 
they  yet  lost  through  intemperance,  the  possession  of  their 
houses;  while  Mary,  though  losing  her  husband,  and  having 
nothing  to  depend  upon  but  the  scanty  remuneration  of  her 
needlework,  yet  retained  her  house  and  all  her  acquired  pro- 
perty in  fact.  Mary,  the  hard-working  widow,  was  almost 
wealthy  in  comparison  with  her  two  sisters  who  had  husbands, 
capable  of  making  six  times  her  wages.  There  was  one  little 
piece  of  property  owned  in  common  between  the  sisters  j  this 
was  their  little  old  homestead,  their  native  cot,  their  mother's 
little  rough-cast  house,  that  stood  out  in  the  field  alone,  with 
a  small,  weed-grown  garden  all  around  it.  But  this  little 
house  was  so  old,  small,  and  dilapidated,  and  so  far  out  of  the 
way,  that  it  brought  in  now  only  three  dollars  a  month,  which 
of  course,  divided,  gave  each  sister  only  a  dollar  a  month. 
As  this  little  rough-cast  house  was  now  vacant,  and  as  Lydia 
was  already  in  arrears  for  rent,  it  was  decided  between  the 
sisters  that  she  and  her  family  should  be  removed  there,  and 
that  they  should  not  require  of  her  their  own  share  of  the 
rent.  To  give  her  this  house  rent-free  was  all  that  the  sisters 
could  now  do  for  her,  unless — yes,  Mary  said  that  she  would 
try  to  obtain  needlework  for  her,  though  Lydia's  want  of  skill 
threatened  to  be  a  great  obstacle  to  her  success.  When  Mary 
and  Ellen  proposed  this  plan  to  Lydia,  and  advised  her  to 
remove  before  her  little  furniture  was  seized  for  rent,  she  grato- 
fully  acceded  to  it.  In  a  few  days  Lydia  was  settled  once  more 
iu  the  humble  home  of  her  happy  infancy.  Lydia  had  honestly 


THE     LITTLE     ROUO  II-C  AST     II  0  U  K  E.          26S 

£aid  five  dollars  out  of  her  bounty  money  to  her  landlord,  and 
with  the  other  five  (Frank  had  sold  his  liberty  for  only  ten 
dollars)  she  bought  shoes  all  round  for  the  children,  as  it  was 
now  growing  cold  and  frosty  under  foot.  The  winter  was  now 
setting  in,  and  the  greater  wants  produced  by  the  cold  weather 
and  the  harder  work,  and  closer  economy  required  in  order  to 
meet  them,  quite  absorbed  the  two  elder  sisters,  so  that  in  the 
care  of  their  children,  they  were  forced  to  leave  Lydia  very 
much  to  her  own  guidance.  That  was  a  hard  winter  on  the 
poor.  By  the  early  closing  of  the  river,  wood  rose  in  price  to 
one-third  more  than  its  usual  value.  Because  of  the  war  with 
Mexico,  the  famine  in  Ireland,  the  partial  failure  of  our  own 
grain-crops,  and  other  adverse  circumstances,  the  price  of 
breadstuff's  were  nearly  doubled,  flour  arose  to  eight,  nine,  tea 
dollars  a  barrel,  and  this  at  a  time  when  the  support  of  large 
families  was  thrown  upon  feeble  women  with  their  limited 
fields  of  labour,  and  the  miserable  pittance  of  wages, — by  the 
absence  of  fathers,  husbands,  and  brothers  in  the  Mexican 
War.  I  scarcely  know  how  the  Three  Sisters  contrived  to 
exist  through  that  dreadful  winter.  Mary  and  Ellen  managed 
to  do  without  the  aid  of  public  charity,  but  their  best  efforts 
failed  in  saving  Lydia  from  that  necessity.  Mary  had  suc- 
ceeded in  procuring  some  needlework,  but  Lydia's  deplorable 
want  of  skill,  and  slowness  in  acquiring  it,  was  an  almost  in- 
superable obstacle  to  her  success. 

For  weeks  at  a  time,  in  the  bitterest  weather,  Lydia  would 
be  without  wood.  The  fence  all  around  the  little  rough -cast 
house  had  to  be  pulled  down  and  burnt,  to  save  herself  and 
her  babes  from  freezing.  For  whole  days  Lydia  would  be 
without  food,  and  in  such  exigencies  she  would,  sometimes, 
when  everything  else  failed,  apply  to  the  benevolent  societies. 
Twice  her  crying  necessities  were  relieved;  upon  the  third 
application,  assistance  was  necessarily  denied  her.  Thn  so- 
ciety, through  the  unusual  demand  upon  its  resources,  had  iu- 
volved  itself  in  debt,  and  was  obliged  to  retrench.  The  long 
%ud  weary  winter,  with  its  terrible  sufferings,  was  at  length 


204  THE     THREE     SISTEUS. 

over.  It  bad  passed  without  bringing  to  tbe  desolate  wife  any 
sidings  of  her  husband.  Spring  opened,  and  relieved  from  the 
pressure  of  the  severest  want  of  the  season — the  want  of  fu<:l — 
the  sisters  began  to  look  up  more  cheerfully.  Their  faces 
seemed  less  pale,  haggard,  and  hungry.  Lydia  had  now  acquired 
some  knowledge  of  cutting  and  fitting  children  nice  clo'hea, 
and  the  spring  had  brought  its  increased  run  of  business.  1  he 
three  sisters,  among  them,  took  one  copy  of  "  The  Star."  It 
was  a  penny  paper,  and  they  took  it  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the 
army  news.  It  was  usually  carried  to  Mary,  who  read  it,  and 
.hen  sent  it  round  to  her  sisters.  One  day,  just  as  Lydia  was 
sntering  Mary's  front  gate,  the  newsboy  passed,  and  threw 
in  the  paper.  Lydia  caught  it  up,  and  hurried  into  the  house 
with  it,  greeted  her  sister  hastily,  and  sat  down  to  look  over 
the  paper.  She  turned  first  to  the  columns  usually  devoted 
to  army  news,  and  read  with  a  curdling  chcv  and-  freezing 
\ieart — in  great  capital  letters — "GLORIOUS  XI'EWS  FROM 
MEXICO.  GREAT  BATTLE  FOUGHT.  American  TROOPS  VIC- 
TORIOUS." Glancing  breathlessly  down  the  column — suddenly 
with  a  wild  shriek  she  leaped  from  her  seat  into  thj)  air,  and 
fell  forward  upon  her  face,  as  though  an  arrow  had  pierced  l«.er 
heart.  The  name  of  Francis  Miller  was  among  the  killed. 
For  days  the  life  of  Lydia  hung  upon  the  weakest  thread. 
She  would  recover  from  insensibility  only  to  fall  into  convul- 
sions at  the  first  dawn  of  consciousness  and  memory,  and  this 
continued  until  her  strength  utterly  failed  under  it,  and  it  was 
feared  that  she  was  sinking  into  death.  At  last  youth  and 
mature  conquered,  and  she  began  slowly  to  recover.  She  arose 
from  her  bed  of  illness  at  first  only  the  ghost  of  her  former 
eelf — so  emaciated,  so  wan,  so  wild-looking  through  her  eyes. 
But  soon  that  singular  strength,  that  latent  strength  that  ia 
the  growth  of  trial  and  suffering,  began  to  develop  itself  iu 
Lydia.  She  looked  life  steadily  and  firmly  in  the  face,  and 
oegan  to  gather  up  the  fragments  that  remained  of  her  broken 
lappiness,  that  nothing  might  be  wasted  Through  all  that 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE.  205 

fiuinmer  as  her  strength  returned,  Lydia  devoted  herself  t  j  the 
care  of  her  children,  with  a  mother's  perfect  love,  and  while 
the  summer  and  fall  lasted  she  managed  by  perseverance,  if 
not  by  skill  in  work,  to  supply  their  necessities.  With  the 
approach  of  winter,  however,  troubles  thickened  around  her. 
Work  became  very  scarce,  and  wages  very  low,  nor  was  it 
possible,  in  every  instance,  to  obtain  from  her  employers  even 
the  scanty  pay  for  which  she  had  contended.  It  was  thus 
that  December,  184—,  found  her. 


CHAPTER  X. 
NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

IT  was  once  more  New  Year's  Eve.  Lydia  was  once  more 
preparing  for  the  New  Year.  But,  oh  !  under  what  different 
circumstances  to  those  in  which  we  have  before  seen  her 
making  ready  for  the  festival. 

Take  a  look  at  her  home — herself  and  her  children  now 
It  is  early,  very  early  in  the  morning.  The  snow-storm  hat 
been  driving  against  the  windows  all  night  long.  Lydia  has 
not  slept  a  wink ;  how  could  she  sleep,  with  the  children  con- 
tinually waking  up  and  crying  with  the  cold — how  could  she 
sleep,  with  the  knowledge  that  there  was  no  wood,  no,  not  one 
log  left  in  the  house  to  make  a  fire  with  in  the  morning,  that 
there  was  no  food  except  a  very  little  handful  of  meal  in  the 
bottom  of  the  barrel  ?  Lydia  arose  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  for 
she  had  a  job  of  work  to  do  that  was  strictly  required  to  bo 
finished  against  New  Year's  Day.  It  was  a  dress  for  a  little 
girl,  whose  parents  lived  on  the  Avenue,  and  who,  in  the  press 
of  work  accumulating  in  the  Christmas  holidays,  had  employed 
Lydia  to  make  it.  By  rising  early  she  might  finish  the  job 


266  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

by  evening,  and  so  please  her  employer  and  get  the  money  to 
buy  a  few  necessaries  for  the  New  Year.  She  had  set  up  at 
work  late  on  the  preceding  evening,  until  the  candle  borrowed 
from  her  sister  Mary  had  burnt  out  in  the  socket  and  left  hei 
in  darkness — still  there  was  a  day's  work  to  do  yet,  as  tin 
dress  was  a  merino  one,  to  be  trimmed  elaborately  with  braid. 
As  soon  as  it  was  light  enough  to  see  to  work,  Lydia  arose, 
shuddering  at  the  biting  cold,  and  dressed  herself  with  numb 
Iiands.  She  covered  the  children  up  warm,  telling  them  to 
lie  close.  Then  she  descended  the  stairs  into  the  cold,  dark, 
fireless  kitchen.  First  she  tried  to  open  the  kitchen  door,  to 
see  how  deep  the  snow  might  be,  and  if  there  was  any  possi- 
bility of  getting  over  to  Mary's  to  borrow  a  log  of  wood.  But 
kydia  had  to  make  many  ineffectual  efforts  before  she  could 
pull  open  the  frost-bound  door,  and  then  an  avalanche  of 
drifted  snow  that  had  been  piled  up  against  it  fell  in  upon  her, 
and  a  gust  of  falling  sleet  and  snow  blew  into  her  face.  I* 
was  dreadful  to  look  out  over  those  white  fields  of  drifte< 
snow,  in  which  the  fences  had  disappeared,  and  in  which  ever 
small  houses  were  half  sunk.  It  was  totally  impossible  to  get 
over  to  The  Three  Cottages  that  morning,  through  the  terrible 
snow-storm.  With  freezing  hands,  and  by  hard  labour  Lydia 
succeeded  in  shoveling  out  the  snow,  and  closing  the  door. 
Then  she  opened  the  ice-bound  window-shutters,  and  let  the 
light  in  upon  the  desolate  kitchen.  What  a  scene  it  was. 
The  favourita  carpet — "mother's  home-made  carpet,"  had 
vanished  before  the  food  and  fuel  necessities  of  the  impover- 
ished family.  The  floor  was  bare,  and  the  planks  warped 
apart  with  age  let  a  tiny  draught  up  through  them.  The 
plastering  was  broken  in  many  places,  and  the  window-sashea 
and  panes  were  loose,  so  that  the  wind  rushed  in  at  every 
quarter,  making  the  room  very  cold,  even  when  there  was  a 
lire  in  the  fire-place,  and  now  there  was  none,  and  no  proba- 
bility of  there  being  one.  A  few  old  rickety  chairs,  a  pine 
iable.  and  a  mpboard,  with  a  few  old  cups  and  saucers  of  delf 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE.  207 

ware  were  all  the  furniture  of  the  desolate  kitchen.  As  the 
cold  gray  light  of  the  stormy  morning,  fell  in  upon  the  cold 
Dearth,  Lydia  looked  up  in  despair.  Her  limbs  were  becom- 
ing powerless  from  intense  cold ;  her  feet  were  like  lifeless 
clods,  her  hands  were  stiff  and  useless  I  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  Were  her  children  indeed  to  starve  and  freeze  before 
her  ?  She  rubbed  her  hands  together  vigorously,  to  restore 
their  suspended  circulation ;  she  went  to  the  meal  barrel,  and 
turning  it  up,  emptied  the  handful  of  meal  into  a  bowl — but 
how  to  cook  it  without  fire  ?  Suddenly  a  bright  thought 
struck  her — taking  an  axe  from  the  corner  under  the  stairs, 
she  rolled  the  barrel  on  to  the  hearth,  and  commenced  knock- 
ing it  to  pieces.  It  was  a  light  stave  barrel,  so  that  by  the 
exertion  of  all  her  little  strength,  she  managed  to  split  it  up, 
and  taking  a  box  of  matches  from  the  mantle-piece,  she  soou 
had  a  blazing  fire,  then  going  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  she 
called  out,  cheerily, 

"  You  may  get  up,  children,  now — there  is  a  fire  now,"  and 
setting  her  little  griddle  to  heat,  she  thawed  the  ice  from  the 
stone  pitcher,  and  began  to  mix  her  corn-cake.  It  was*  baked 
by  the  time  the  children  came  down  stairs.  And  aftir  she 
hud  placed  the  corn-cake  upon  the  pine  table,  and  aftor  the 
children  had  gathered  around  it,  she  asked  a  blessing  in  a 
cheerful  voice,  and  broke  the  bread  among  them.  A  fire  and 
a  meal  had  been  effected,  and  that  was  enough  to  restore  for 
the  hour  the  peace  of  one  now  inured  to  hardship.  I  ittle 
clearing  away  did  this  humble  meal  require.  It  was  soon 
done,  and  setting  down  her  children,  girls  and  boys,  to  cut  and 
sew  carpet  rags,  she  took  up  her  sewing  and  applied  herself 
vigorously  to  it,  stopping  now  and  then  to  clap  her  hands  to 
restore  their  congealing  circulation,  or  to  keep  up  the  little 
fire  by  the  occasional  addition  of  a  stave. 

"  Never  mind,  children,"  she  would  say,  gayly,  "  we  shall 
have  a  good  fire  to-night,  and  some  loaf-bread  for  supper. 
Mother  has  only  got  to  finish  and  carry  home  this  work;  and 


268  THE     THREE    SISTERS. 

the  will  get  some  money,  and  buy  some  wood  and  some  fioui 
and  molasses,  and  she  will  see  if  she  can't  make  her  children 
eonie  cakes  for  New  Year's." 

"And  mother,  won't  you  get  my  shoes  home  from  Mr. 
Tucker's  ?"  asked  little  Harry,  whose  little  shoes  had  been  at 
a  cobblei'a  to  be  mended  for  two  weeks,  and  had  remained 
there  because  there  was  no  money  to  pay  for  them. 

"  Yes,  Harry,  dear,  mother  will  do  that,  too." 

All  day  long  she  stitched  and  stitched.  The  children  be- 
came hungry  again,  and  the  fire  was  almost  out.  They  became 
very  cold.  Hunger  and  cold  react  upon  each  other,  each 
augmenting  the  other.  About  noon  the  barrel  that  had 
supplied  the  morning's  fuel,  stintingly  as  it  had  been  used, 
was  quite  exhausted,  and  only  a  few  embers  remained.  Lydia 
Lad  three  old  chairs;  one  of  them  must  be  sacrificed,  a  little 
fire  must  be  had,  or  the  children  must  perish.  She  arose  and 
broke  up  the  chair — no  hard  matter,  it  was  already  rickety — 
and  placed  it  on  the  fire ;  the  children  crowded  around  the 
little  blaze — Milly,  the  baby,  bringing  her  pet  pigeon,  whose 
feet  were  also  crisped  up  with  cold — and  the  mother  resumed 
her  needle.  All  day  the  mother  and  children  had  watched 
the  sky,  waiting  for,  hoping  for  the  cessation  of  the  snow-storm 
with  an  anxiety  only  to  be  realized  by  the  very  poor  and  suffer- 
ing. At  length,  a  little  after  noon,  the  storm  subsided,  the 
sun  shone  out  in  splendour. 

"  See,  children,  it  has  cleared  off  beautifully,"  exclaimed 
Lydia,  by  way  of  calling  their  attention  to  the  brilliant  flash- 
ing of  the  sun  upon  the  snow  without,  as  she  plied  her  needle 
with  renewed  zeal  and  cheerfulness;  but  soon  as  the  afternoon 
waned,  her  good  spirits  flagged, — a  weariness,  a  chilliness,  an 
inclination  to  yawn,  a  headache,  crept  upon  her.  These  slight 
chills  followed  by  hectic  fevers,  the  effects  of  constant  anxiety, 
work,  exposure,  and  slow  starvation,  she  had  felt  at  irregular 
periods  before,  but  always  in  the  afternoon  or  evening.  But 
oow,  as  she  sat  there,  the  syuir'ims  increased — an  iusupporta- 


NEW    TEAR'S    EVS.  269 

b:e  weariness,  a  death-like  chill;  shiverings,  glows,  mortal 
sickness  seized  1,  vr.  Still,  she  crept  nearer  the  fire,  and  worked 
harder,  faster,  to  Complete  her  task — it  must  be  finished,  or  tu» 
children  must  famkh  with  cold  and  hunger.  They  had  eaten 
nothing  since  morning — the  fire  was  dying  out  a  second  time, 
and  now  the  second  chair  was  split  up  and  put  upon  the  de- 
caying embers.  It  was  near  sunset  when  the  dress  was 
finished.  With  her  cheeks  burning  with  high  fever,  with  her 
very  throat  and  lips  scorched  with  the  flame  of  her  breath, 
with  a  splitting  headache,  Lydia  tottered  to  her  feet,  smoothed 
out  the  dress,  and,  folding  it  neatly,  pinned  it  up  in  the  care- 
fully preserved  paper  in  which  it  had  been  brought  home. 
Then  sinking  quivering  and  exhausted  in  her  chair  again,  sh* 
called  two  of  her  children  to  get  ready  and  carry  it  home. 

"  Let  me  take  it,  mother,"  said  Harry,  the  eldest  boy. 

"  No,  my  dear,  you  have  no  shoes — Lizzy's  and  Tomiuy'fl 
shoes  are  good — let  them  go." 

Then  she  sent  Harry  up  stairs  for  two  pair  of  his  own  well- 
darned  stockings,  and  calling  the  two  little  ones,  she  drew  the 
socks  over  their  shoes  to  keep  them  from  filling  with  snow, 
ind  then  wrapping  them  up  in  their  little  linsey  cloaks,  and 
tying  on  Tommy's  little  cat-skin  cap,  and  Lizzy's  brown  stuff 
hood,  she  gave  Lizzy  the  bundle  and  started  them.  Then  re- 
turning, she  dropped  upon  the  old  lounge,  utterly  prostrated. 
Hurry  was  at  her  side  again  in  an  instant. 

"  Mother,  you  are  sick,  dear  mother,  ain't  you  very  sick  ?" 

"Only  a  little,  darling;  I  have  had  a  chill,  and  now  have 
a  fever,  that  is  all.  Look  at  your  little  sister,  Harry,  lift  her 
up  and  put  her  in  the  cradle,"  said  the  mother,  straining  rer 
eyes  anxiously  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  the  baby  had 
oried  itself  to  sleep  for  hunger,  and  lay  coiled  up  with  its  still 
fat  cheek  doubled  up  under  its  dimpled  arm,  and  the  pet 
pigeon  sheltered  to  its  bosom.  "  Lift  her  up,  Harry,  and  lay 
her  in  the  cradle;  cover  her  up  warm,  Harry." 

Tlie  little  boy  raised-  his  sister  with  difficulty.     She  half 


270  THE     THREE     SISTEBS. 

waked,  sighed,  but  fell  asleep  again  as  he  placed  her  on  hef 
little  bed  and  tucked  her  up.  The  pet  pigeon  cooed  uneasily, 
hopped  up  on  the  edge  of  the  cradle,  plumed  itself,  and  flutter- 
ing down  upon  the  pillow,  nestled  lovingly  against  the  infant's 
3heek. 

"  Mother,  can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ?"  asked  the  child, 
coming  back  to  his  mother's  side.  "  Can't  I  cover  you  up  ? 
Can't  I  hold  your  head  ?" 

"  Yes,  Harry,  darling;  you  can  get  a  quilt  from  up  staira 
and  lay  over  my  feet;  and  close  the  window-blind  to  keep  out 
this  light — -it  makes  mother  worse,  my  dear." 

Harry  did  all  that  was  required  of  him,  and  then  sat  down 
in  the  dark,  cold  room,  with  his  infant  sister  sleeping  in  the 
cradle,  and  his  suffering  mother  lying  upon  the  lounge.  He 
sat  down  by  her  side  with  a  saucer  of  cold  water,  in  which  he 
continually  wet  his  little  hand  to  cool  her  head. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  Harry,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  weak  voice, 
"  be  patient,  dear  Harry ;  mother's  fever  will  go  off  by-and-by, 
and  brother  and  sister  will  return  with  the  money  and  with 
your  shoes,  and  you  shall  go  out  and  buy  some  wood  and 
groceries — you  shall  have  a  good  fire  and  a  good  supper  yet." 

An  hour  passed,  the  high  fever  was  going  off  in  the  perspi- 
ration that  concludes  an  attack  of  ague  and  fever,  and  she  was 
waiting  for  this  also  to  pas?  off,  when  the  baby  awoke  and 
began  to  cry  for  food.  The  mother  got  up  at  once  and  went 
to  her  child,  took  her  up  in  her  arms,  and  walked  the  floor 
with  her,  trying  to  soothe  her  with  caresses,  with  soft  words 
and  gentle  smiles,  and  promises  that  she  should  have  some- 
thing to  eat  when  her  sister  and  brother  came  home. 

"  But  me  hundry,  me  so  hundry,"  wailed  the  child,  inces- 
•antly,  "  me  no  b'ead*so  ion'  time,  mammy  I  div  Milly  b'ead, 
mammy '"  tearfully  coaxed  the  infant,  clinging  around  her 
mother's  neck,  unable  to  understand  why  its  mother  could  not 
satisfy  its  wants.  But  if  the  piteous  complaints  of  her  babo 
were  torture  to  hear  and  to  bear,  not  the  less  agonizing  WM 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE.  271 

the  sight  of  her  poor  patient  boy,  with  his  broad  fair  brow, 
large  hollow  eyes,  and  sharp  cLin,  sitting  on  a  little  old  trunk, 
with  his  thin  hands  locked  together.  He  was  her  first  born, 
and  if  she  did  not  love  him  best,  at  least  they  understood  each 
other  best ;  he  was  in  her  confidence,  and  now  he  comprehended 
that  melancholy  look  with  which  she  regarded  him,  and  start- 
ing  up,  he  ran  to  her,  and  embracing  her,  said, 

"It  is  most  time  for  them  to  be  here,  mother,  and  if  yc  • 
and  the  baby  can  stand  it,  I  can,  dear  mother." 

It  was  time,  high  time  that  the  children  had  returned ;  it 
was  getting  dark,  and  their  mother,  though  momentarily  expect- 
ing them,  was  growing  every  moment  more  anxious.  It  was 
horrible — the  approaching  night,  that  freezing  room,  that  fire- 
less  hearth,  the  starving  but  patient  boy,  the  wailing  infant, 
the  growing  darkness,  the  intense  anxiety  for  the  two  little 
wanderers,  the  desolation,  the  despair — oh !  perhaps  the  death 
closing  all  around  them. 

"  Oh  !  where  can  my  children  be  ?  Oh  !  God,  have  mercy 
on  me — they  must  have  fire,  they  must  have  food,  or  die  before 
me."  She  set  down  the  infant,  and  calling  her  son,  said, 
"  Harry,  come  and  try  to  help  me  split  up  this  table,  it  is  the 
very  last  thing,  except  the  baby's  ;radle,  that  will  burn,  about 
the  house."  And  the  table  soon  shared  the  fate  of  the  chairs? 
and  as  the  cheerful  blaze  once  more  arose  on  the  cold  hearth, 
the  eye  of  the  mother  fell  upon  the  children's  pet  pigoon :  a 
bright  thought  like  an  animal  instinct,  suddenly  lighted  up 
her  face,  and  then  a  shadow  fell  upon  her  brow,  and  a  tear 
dimmed  her  eye.  "  No,  poor  thing,  I  can't  take  your  life, 
at  least  not  yet,  not  quite  yet;  you  have  suffered  hunger 
and  cold  with  the  children,  and  you  love  them  and  they  love 
you,"  thought  Lydia,  and  then  again  raising  the  baby — 
who  had  exhausted  itself  by  weeping,  and  was  now  quiet, 
up  in  her  arms,  she  went  to  the  window  to  look  out  for 
her  wandering  children.  No  sign  of  them  could  she  see, 
though  she  looked  eagerly,  far,  far  c  ;er  the  undulating  drif^a 


272  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

of  snow  tnat  stretched  on  towards  the  city.     She  watched 
till  the  sky  grew  too  dark  for  her  to  discern  anything. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  two  little  children  had  toddled  along 
log-deep  in  the  drifts  of  snow,  but  bearing  it  bravely,  as 
children  always  bear  such  things,  until  they  got  to  the  pave- 
ment running  around  the  Capitol.  It  was  good  walking  there, 
and  on  the  flag-stones  crossing  to  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  and 
down  the  Avenue,  and  the  children  ran  on  until  thejr  got  to  the 
line  of  fancy  stores,  toy  shops,  &c.,  and  there  'hey  would  pause 
and  gaze — not  knowing  how  soon  time  would  pass  and  night 
would  be  on  them.  They  saw  well-dressed  children  of  their  own 
age,  going  into  toy-shops  with  their  mammas,  or  coming  out  with 
their  hands  or  little  baskets  filled  with  dolls,  tops,  guns,  drums 
— things  that  to  these  poor  children  looked  so  splendid  and 
seemed  so  desirable — and  farther  they  would  go  on  and  stop 
and  gaze  with  hungry  eyes  into  the  confectioners'  shops,  where 
the  very  smell  of  the  freshly-baked  cakes  stimulated  anew  the 
appetites  of  the  half-famishing  children.  They  went  on,  and  at 
last  came  to  the  by-street  down  'vhich  they  had  to  turn  to  take 
the  dress  to  the  family  to  whom  it  belonged.  It  was  a  teacher's 
family;  and  when  the  children  got  to  the  door,  and  Lizzy  pulled 
the  bell,  it  was  the  teacher  himself  in  his  wadded  dressing-gown, 
who  opened  the  door.  When  he  saw  two  little  bits  of  children 
there,  two  tiny  little  human  wrens,  as  they  were,  so  late  in  the 
evening,  through  such  a  deep  snow,  he  paused  a  moment  in 
pitying  amazement.  Then  he  pulled  them  gently  in  out  of 
the  cold,  before  he  inquired — 

"  What  do  you  want,  little  ones?" 
"  Please,  sir,  mother  has  sent  home  the  work." 
"Ah,  yes!  hem!  Elly's  dress,  I  suppose. — Well,  come  in, 
little  folks,  and  warm  yourselves.     Mrs.  Anson  is  in  the  back 
parlour,"  and,  leading  the  way  through  a  narrow  passage  to  a 
sitting-room,  where  there  was  a  warm  stove  and  a  tea-table  set, 
the  teacher  made  the  children  sit  down  near  the  stove,  and 
took  the  bun  lie  from  them  and  handed  it  to  his  wife,  who  had 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE.  273 

jitst  entered.     She   opened  and   looked  at  it,  seemed  well 
pleased,  and  said,  turning  to  her  husband — 

"  Have  you  a  dollar-and-three-quartcrs  in  change,  Mr 
Anson  ?" 

"  Is  that  the  price  she  asked  for  making  this  dress  ?'*  in 
quired  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Yes.  It  is  neavily  braided,  you  see,  it  must  have  taken 
her  four  or  five  days  to  make  it." 

"  Yes  it  di<f,"  chimed  in  both  the  children  here. 

The  teacher  stopped  and  looked  at  them.  Saw  their  poverty, 
their  hunger,  their  enjoyment  of  the  stove,  their  eager  but 
covert  glances  at  the  bread  on  the  table. 

"  Is  not  supper  nearly  ready,  wife  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes — Kitty  is  just  going  to  bring  it  in," — and  as  she  spoke, 
Kitty  entered,  and  placed  a  pot  of  coffee  and  a  tureen  of  oyiiterd 
on  the  table. 

"Well,  then,  let's  sit  down;  come,  little  folks,"  he  said  to 
the  children,  "  come  up  and  get  some  supper.  Kitty,  put  two 
plates  here  for  these  children." 

The  schoolmaster's  own  sons  and  caughters  now  came  in 
and  took  their  seats  at  the  table,  and  Miss  Elly,  the  youngest 
girl,  kindly  removed  the  wet  cloaks  of  the  poor  children,  and 
showed  them  where  to  sit.  It  did  the  hearts  of  the  kind- 
hearted  family  good  to  sec  how  the  famished  children  enjoyed 
this  feast,  until  little  Lizzy  suddenly  stopped,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  little  one?  Don't  cry.  What 
are  you  crying  for  ?" 

"  Because  tnoth — moth — mother  ain't  got  any  !"  sobbed  the 
child. 

"  Well,  never  mind,  mother  shall  have  some — we  wiil  put 
BOine  in  a  little  tin  bucKet,  and  give  you,  to  carry  to  mother — 
you  are  a  good  girl,  to  think  of  mother." 

"  I  thought  of  her,  too  !"  chimed  in  Tommy,  wilh  his  mouth 
full,  "  <nly  1  can't  cry  like  Lizzy,  because  I'm  not  a  gal." 


274  TEE     THREE     SISTERS. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  over,  the  teacher's  wife  put  up  a 
little  pint  pail  of  oysters,  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  Lizzy, 
saying— 

"  You  may  take  the  oysters  to  your  mother,  and  you  maj 
keep  the  pail,"  and  the  teacher  gave  Lizzy  a  two  dollar  bill, 
telling  her  to  tell  her  mother,  "  Never  mind  the  quarter." 

And  the  children,  now  warmed,  fed,  and  comforted,  set  out 
upon  their  return.  The  schoolmaster  and  his  wife  knew 
nothing  of  this  family;  nothing  at  all  of  the  extreme  destitu- 
tion into  which  they  had  fallen;  nothing  of  the  distance  the 
children  had  to  traverse,  else  you  may  be  sure  that  they  would 
have  sent  a  servant  to  see  them  safely  home,  and  a  basket  of 
provisions  to  farther  relieve  their  necessity.  The  children 
hurried  along,  merrily  enough,  until  they  came  to  the  Avenue 
again.  Here  they  paused  and  sauntered — the  gas-lights  of  the 
streets,  the  brilliantly  illumined  windows,  the  cheerful  crowd, 
hurrying  up  and  down  the  pavements,  fascinated  their  atten- 
tion, and,  when  some  crowd  of  boys,  firing  off  squibs,  would 
sing  out — "  Hurra  for  New  Year's  !"  Tommy — poor,  thought- 
less child,  would  clap  his  wings,  and  crow  out  in  reply — 
"''  Hurra-a-a-a  !"  until  the  earnest  little  Lizzy,  pressing  his  arm, 
reminded  him  that  mother  was  waiting,  and  they  hastened  on. 
The  children  got  on  well  all  down  the  long  Avenue,  and  round 
the  pavement  of  the  Capitol,  until  they  left  them,  with  their 
bright  lights,  behind,  and  struck  out  into  the  snow-clad  fields 
beyond.  Here  it  was  dark,  but  for  the  star-light  and  the 
snow,  and  here  the  drifts  of  snow  were  very  deep,  and  what 
«'as  worse,  the  ground  under  it  was  very  uneven,  traversed 
with  gullies  and  ridges,  and  the  children  plunged  on  through 
the  drifts  nearly  up  to  their  waists,  sometimes  above  them, 
and  sometimes  almost  lost  among  them.  Presently,  in  climb- 
ing up  a  snow-covered  ridge,  poor  Lizzy  slipped,  and  rolled 
over  down  the  other  side,  drawing  heaps  of  snow  af*er  her. 
until  she  was  buried  in  the  deep  drift  at  the  foot.  With  a 
>cream  of  terror,  Tommy  run  and  slid  down  to  her  rescue — 


NEW    YEAR'S   EVE.  276 

dug  hei  v>ut  hastily  with  his  hands,  and  pulling  her  up  with 
all  his  little  might,  a^ed  breathlessly — 

"Are  you  hurt,  Liz/y? — are  you  bumped? — is  it  Heeding 
anywhere?" 

"  No,"  sobbed  the  child,  looking  around  her,  "  but — but  I 
have  lost  the  money  and  the  oysters,  and — and  oh,  I  have 
lost  the  sweet  little  pail!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  new  burst  of 
grief;  "oh,  help  me  to  look  for  the  pail,  brother." 

The  children  began  to  grope  about  among  the  snow,  until 
their  hands  and  feet  were  stiff  with  cold.  Of  course  the  money 
was  lost  beyond  recovery — but  at  last  they  found  the  pail,  and 
weeping  bitterly  with  cold  and  disappointment,  they  toiled  ou 
their  laborious  way  through  the  snow  drifts  towards  their 
home.  Arrived  at  the  door,  they  saw  by  the  flickering  light 
on  the  windows  that  "  mother"  had  some  fire.  Their  hands 
too  numb  to  double  up  for  a  rap,  they  pushed  against  the 
door,  which  was  quickly  flung  wide  open,  and  their  mother 
received  them  both  in  her  arms,  exclaiming — 

"  Oh,  children,  where  have  you  been — what  kept  you  so 
long?  I  have  been  so  uneasy  about  you!"  and,  without 
waiting  an  answer,  she  drew  them  to  the  small  fire,  and  began 
to  pull  off  their  wet  shoes  and  stockings.  Not  until  she  had 
made  them  as  comfortable  as  she  could  with  her  small  fire, 
and  not  until  they  had  told  her  of  the  schoolmaster's  kind- 
ness  to  them,  did  she  ask, 

"  Where  is  the  money,  Jiildren — and  did  you  remember 
to  call  for  your  brother's  shoes  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  we  lost  the  monsy,  and  so  we  couldn't  get 
the  shoes." 

"  Lost  the  money  !"  exclaimed  the  mother,  in  despair. 

"  Lost  the  money  !"  cried  Harry,  m  dismay. 

"  Yes,  lost  the  money  !  indee<»  we  could  not  help  it,  mother  ! 
I  carried  it  carefully  in  my  haud,  but  I  fell  down  in  a  snow- 
bank, and  as  I  opened  my  hfxd  to  catch  myself,  I  lost  the 
money.  You  ain't  mad  with  poor  us,  mother,  are  you?" 


276  THE     THREE     SIS TEE & 

"Angry  with  you,  Lizzy  !"  exclaimed  the  mother  in  a  ^.OKA 
jf  utter  despair,  "  angry  with  you,  poor  child  ? — no,  it  is  not 
that !" 

She  now  turned  to  look  at  the  baby  in  the  cradle.  It  had 
ceased  its  noisy  complaints,  and  now  was  wailing  with  a 
piteously  low  moan,  as  though  its  strength  was  quite  exhausted. 
She  turned  from  that  sight  to  look  on  Harry.  His  eyes,  aa 
he  stood  in  the  corner  by  the  fire,  were  cavernous  with  famine. 
And  then  she  went  and  caught  the  pet  pigeon,  which  flew  to 
her  bosom.  Harry's  large,  haggard  eyes  followed  her  suspi- 
ciously with  their  bright  glare. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Pidggy,  mother?"  ho 
asked. 

«  Kill  it,  my  love— kill  it." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  no  !  no  !  no  !"  exclaimed  Lizzy  and  Tommy, 
in  a  breath. 

"  Children,  you  have  supped — your  brother  and  sister  are 
starving." 

" Oh,  mother  !  not  for  me"  pleaded  Harry,  " spare  poor 
Pidggy — see  how  she  loves  you,  and  tries  to  get  in  your 


And  now  all  the  children  ezcept  the  famishing  baby  in  the 
cradle,  crowded  around  their  mother  pleading  for  "  Pidggy." 
Tears  rolled  down  Lydia's  cheeks  as  she  turned  away  from 
them,  and  pointing  to  the  cradle,  said, 

"  Your  little  sister  complains  no  more — she  is  dying  for 
food.  Pidggy's  life  taken  will  save  hers — go  away — it  will 
only  be  a  moment.  Pidggy  will  not  suffer  much."  And  she 
gently  pushed  the  children  off,  and  went  to  a  dark  corner, 
whence  she  took  a  hatchet,  and  holding  the  head  of  Pidggy 
down  upon  the  hearth,  raised  the  hatchet.  A  startling  rap 
at  the  door  arrested  her  hand. 

;<  Who  is  there  ?"  inquired  she,  turning  around.  The  kaob 
mat  turned,  the  door  opened,  and  a  handsome,  well-dressotl 


HEW    YEAR'S    EVF.  ?77 

UUO    entered.     A  loud  scream  burst  from   Lydia's  lips,  i  \ 
dropping  the  living  pigeon,  she  sprang  to  his  bosom — 

«  Frank !" 

'•Lydia!" 

"  Good  God  !  is  this  you  ?     Am  I  dreaming,  or  has  troubl 
driven  me  mad  ?" 

"/,  Lydia!  it  is  I;  compose  yourself,  Lydia;  compose 
yourself,  dear  Lydia,"  said  our  old  acquaintance,  Frank  Miller ; 
for,  of  course,  it  was  he  who  had  returned  safe  and  sound,  and 
was  now  soothing,  caressing,  and — yes,  weeping  over  his  wife. 
"  Lydia  !  how  are  you  ?  How  are  the  children  ?  Oh,  God !" 
he  exclaimed  bitterly,  looking  around,  "  you  are  so  poor !" 

"  Oh  !  I  am  rich  !  I  am  rich  I"  replied  Lydia.  "  You  are 
restored — you  are  restored.  The  grave  is  not  inexorable,  it 
has  restored  you  to  my  love." 

"  What  grave,  dear  Lydia  ?  You  are  talking  very  wildly, 
love." 

Need  I  tell  the  reader  how  quickly  the  scene  was  changed 
in  that  miserable  home — how  soon  a  hot  fire  blazed  in  the 
chimney,  how  soon  a  hot  supper  smoked  on  the  table,  how  the 
children  gathered  around  it,  transported  between  the  joy  of 
seeing  their  father's  return,  their  mother's  joy,  and  the  much 
needed  supper  before  them  ? 

Need  I  tell  that  a  mere  mistake  in  the  military  report,  had 
occasioned  Lydia's  supposition  of  her  widowhood  ?  How  the 
irregularity  of  the  mails  had  prevented  the  rectification  of  the 
mistake  ?  Need  I  tell  you  with  what  joy,  as  she  and  Frank 
with  the  two  youngest  children  on  their  laps,  and  the  two 
eldest  seated  between  them,  were  seated  at  the  fire,  Lydia 
heard  that  Frank  and  Bohrer  had  met  in  Mexico,  had  both 
reformed,  had  both  taken  the  pledge  two  years  before,  and  had 
kept  it  faithfully  ever  since — that  Bohrer  had  returned  with 
him  to  Washington,  and  was  now  at  his  own  home  with  Ellen  ? 
The  next  day,  New  Year's  Day,  Mary  Fairfield  (from  whom 
1  got  this  whole  story),  who  had  the  only  comfortable  home 


278  THE     THREE     SISTERS. 

in  the  family,  iuvited  her  two  sisters  and  brothers-in-law  to  a 
family  dinner  at  her  house.  And  perhaps  in  all  the  rejoicing 
in  the  city  of  Washington,  there  was  none  so  heartfelt  as  theirs. 
The  sale  of  their  bounty-land,  and  the  savings  from  their  wages, 
enabled  Bohrer  and  Frank  Miller  to  repurchase  their  homes 
at  a  considerable  advance  upon  the  price  at  which  they  had 
been  sold.  And  now  The  Three  Sisters,  two  of  them  under 
happier  auspices  than  ever,  are  once  more  settled  in  The  Three 
Cottages. 


ANNIE     GREY; 

OR, 

NEIGHBOURS'  PRESCRIPTIONS. 

«d  u  man's  foes  shall  be  those  of  his  own  household. — MITT.  x.  84 

If  thou  would'st,  doctor,  find  out  her  disease, 
And  change  it  to  a  round  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo, 
That  should  applaud  again. — SHAKSPEAEK. 

Sick  people  commonly  recover, 

If  only  neighbours  give  them  over. — BUTLER. 

IT  might  not  be  considered  polite  "  to  talk  to  physicians  of 
fevers,"  in  stories,  more  than  in  drawing-rooms;  yet,  if  I  so 
offend,  pardon  me,  for  the  sake  of  a  good  motive,  as  the  lady 
said  when  she  killed  her  friend  by  advising  the  wrong  physic. 
Besses,  I  "hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident" — that  it 
would  be  a  wanton  waste  of  my  own  leisure,  and  an  imperti- 
nent trespass  upon  my  readers'  time,  to  obtrude  upon  their 
notice  a  pure  fiction,  without  object  or  aim — such  being  the 
prerogative  only  of  those  monarchs  of  fancy  and  imagination 
w  ho  have  divided  among  themselves  the  empire  of  romance 
and  poetry.  (The  reader  will  please  consider  inserted  here 
th(>  names  of  his  or  her  favourite  novelists  or  poets.)  The^e- 
forr,  I  shall  only  "  deferentially  solicit,"  as  the  office-seekers 
lay,  the  company  of  my  clement  reader  to  a  gossip  about  the 
errors  and  foibles  of  our  neighbours,  faithfully  promising  to 
exaggerate  and  embellish  no  more  than  is  customary  with  other 
retailers  of  scanda,.  And  the  first  thing  we  will  talk  about, 
dear  reader,  will  be  neighbours'  well-meant  but  oft-times  iuju 
17  (2-.  9) 


2X0         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

dicious  and  fatal  prescriptions  for  the  sick.  And  it  is  a  mat- 
ter far  too  serious  to  be  lightly  treated ;  therefore,  attention  ! 
I  have  known  many  cases  in  which  neighbours'  prescriptions 
have  retarded  the  convalescence  of  the  sick ;  I  have  known 
several,  in  which  they  bave  rendered  recovery  impossible.  The 
first  illustration  in  point,  that  occurs  to  me,  is  the  case  of  a 
relative  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  who  was  recovering  from 
a  severe  attack  of  bilious  pleurisy.  He  was  so  far  convales- 
cent as  to  require  no  farther  aid  from  medicine  or  attention 
from  a  physician.  He  was  able  to  sit  up,  but  very  weak. 
While  in  health,  he  had  been  a  moderate  drinker  of  wine  and 
brandy.  Now  that  he  was  suffering  under  the  debility  conse- 
quent upon  a  severe  fit  of  illness,  he  fancied  that  he  required 
his  accustomed  stimulant.  A  neighbour,  tender-hearted  to 
the  extent  of  weakness,  mixed  and  presented  to  him  a  glasa 
of  brandy  toddy.  From  the  moment  in  which  he  swallowed 
it,  his  fever  arose,  and  he  grew  rapidly  and  alarmingly  worse. 
The  family  physician  was  hastily  summoned,  and,  upon  hi» 
arrival  at  the  bedside  of  his  patient,  he  demanded  to  be  in- 
formed what  he  had  been  taking.  The  conscience-strickou 
neighbour  answered,  in  faltering  tones,  "  Nothing  in  the  world, 
Doctor,  but  a  little  drop  of  brandy  toddy,  which  you  know 
could  not  possibly  hurt  him — could  it '(" 

"  He  will  be  stiff  enough  in  three  days,"  was  the  literal 
reply  of  the  blunt  old  physician. 

And  he  was  "stiff  enough  in  three  days;"  and  to  the  end 
of  her  long  life,  the  kind-hearted  but  ill-judging  neighbour 
reproached  herself  with  having  "  killed  poor  Georgo  G .'' 

l^et  jne  try  to  recall  the  circumstances  of  the  next  case. 

¥es !  I  remember.  There  was  poor  B.  He  was  a  good 
youth^' one  of  the  excellent  of  the  earth" — his  mother's 
heart — his  father's  right  hand.  While  suffering  under  a  slight 
indisposition,  induced  by  a  long  pedestrian  journey  through 
the  heat  of  an  August  sun,  he  was  persuaded  by  a  neighbour 
to  try  somebody's  pills,  an  infallible  remedy  for  all  diseases — 


NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS.         281 

hydrophobia  and  whooping  cough,  croup  and  corns,  mania  and 
moasies,  erysipelas  and  everything.  He  bought  a  box,  poor 
boy  !  and  took  the  pills ;  but  the  more  pills  he  took,  the  worse 
he  grew — and  the  worse  he  grew,  the  more  pills  he  took — until 
the  box  was  empty,  and  himself  past  cure.  The  pills  in  h.'s 
particular  case  acted  as  a  potent  poison,  and  killed  him  in  twc 
days.  His  medical  attendant  (called  in  when  he  was  dying) 
Said  it,  and  his  parents  knew  it. 

I  wish  that  Congress  would  leave  quarrelling  for  a  few  mi- 
nutes, and  pass  a  little  by-law,  making  it  murder  to  kill  with 
kindness,  and  felony  to  prescribe  without  a  diploma.  There 
would  be  some  lives  and  medical  reputations  saved,  perchance, 
though  at  the  cost  of  depriving  some  worthy  people  of  a  fa- 
vourite amusement. 

It  is  rather  hard  that  physicians  not  only  have  a  downrigJ-c, 
sboveboard,  open  enemy,  in  a  disease,  to  encounter,  but  that 
in  neighbours'  prescriptions  they  have  to  contend  with  a  secret 
foe,  who  works  in  the  dark,  whom  they  do  not  suspect,  and 
cannot  surprise — because,  when  the  step  of  the  Doctor  is  heard 
upon  the  stairs,  the  bottle  or  the  bowl  is  always  thrust  under 
the  bed  or  into  the  cupboard.  These  neighbours,  while  enter- 
taining the  kindest  intentions,  and  making  the  most  plausible 
professions,  contrive  by  their  prescriptions  to  counteract  the 
Doctor's  treatment,  baffle  hi&  skill,  and  kill  his  patient — by 
giving  a  stimulant  where  he  has  ordered  a  sedative,  an  astrin- 
gent when  he  has  directed  a  cathartic,  or  an  opiate  if  he  has 
proscribed  a  febrifuge — and  vice  versa.  And  the  physician 
comes  and  finds  that  a  case,  the  successful  treatment  of  which 
has  cost  him  deep  research,  severe  study,  anxious  thought, 
tonstant  vigilance — a  case  in  which  not  only  his  professional 
reputation  is  involved,  but  his  social  sympathy  is  enlisted  (for 
the  family  physician,  though  a  constant  attendant  at  the  bod 
of  suffering,  is  not  case-hardened;  he  feels  the  imploring  glance 
of  his  patient,  who  seems  to  think  life  depends  upon  the  Doc- 
IT'S  skill;  he  sees  the  anxious  looks  of  friends,  who  scarcely 


232         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

breathe  while  listening  to  his  fiat) — a  case  which  he  has  brought 
to  a  certain  point  of  convalescence,  suddenly  wrested  from  his 
hands,  and  placed  beyond  his  reach,  not  by  the  inveteracy  ^f 
disease,  not  by  the  inefficiency  of  medicine,  but  by  the  officioui 
intermeddling  of  some  well-meaning  but  injudicious  neighbour 
In  many  such  cases,  the  physician  must  be  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
conjecture  the  cause  of  his  patient's  unexpected  change  for  the 
worse;  for,  more  than  half  the  time,  neighbours  and  friends 
are  unconscious  of  having  caused  the  mischief,  or  unwilling  to 
acknowledge  their  agency  in  it — so  that,  notwithstanding  the 
physician's  cross-examination,  the  truth  is  seldom  elicited.  I 
have  often  heard  people  say,  in  auch  cases — 

"  Lord  bless  you,  we  were  afraid  to  let  the  Doctor  know." 

And  so  the  Doctor,  seeing  this  failure,  may  lose  faith  in  hia 
excellent  mode  of  treatment,  and  in  the  next  case  change  it 
for  a  worse  one. 

How  rational  people  can  trust  to  the  prescriptions  of  neigh- 
bours whom  they  know  to  be  as  ignorant  of  medicine  as  them- 
selves, I  cannot  tell ;  for  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the  gibe,  that 
"  physicians  are  men  who  put  drugs,  of  which  they  know  little, 
into  stomachs  of  which  they  know  less,"  it  is  very  certain  that 
most  neighbours  and  visiters  of  the  sick  know  nothing  at  all 
of  either  drugs  or  stomach,  pharmacy  or  physiology. 

But  I  must  make  an  end  of  "  oratory,"  and,  skipping  at 
least  twenty  good  illustrations  of  my  caption,  come  to  the  last 
and  most  affecting  instance  on  the  list ;  and  I  must  introduce 
it  story-fashion,  too,  lest  it  should  not  be  read.  Imprimis. 

One  fine  summer  morning,  in  a  neat  bed-chamber,  the  floor 
covered  with  straw  matting,  the  windows  shaded  by  white  musliu 

curt !  Mlserabili !  Here  I  am  in  the  midst  of  another 

description  of  another  room.  I  beg  the  reader's  parcon,  with 
all  my  heart.  The  subject  is  trite  (so  is  everything  else, 
bread  and  butter  and  sunshine  included) ;  but  a  bad  habit  is 
BO  hard,  to  shake  off.  It  sticks  to  one  with  the  fidelity  of — 
yf  a  bad  habit.  The  reader  will  please  to  imagine,  for  him- 


THE     1  \V  i  N     SISTERS.  283 

self  or  Lerself,  the  neatest,  cleanest,  coolest,  pleasantcst,  little 
summer  chamber  that  can  be  conceived,  so  that  it  comes  with- 
in the  means  of  a  poor  journeyman  mechanic — for  such  a  one 
was  the  father  of  the  two  delicate  young  girls  who  occupy  the 
room.  Upon  a  little  French  bedstead,  covered  with  a  white 
counterpane,  reposed  the  fair,  fragile  form  of  Annie,  the  elder 
of  the  twin  sisters.  She  was  thin,  eveu  to  emaciation,  yet 
very  beautiful  as  she  slept.  Her  long  black  eyelashes  rested 
upon  a  cheek  white  as  marble,  transparent  as  pearl  j  her  long 
black  hair,  escaped  from  her  cap,  floated  over  the  pillow.  He'r 
slender  white  arm  was  thrown  above  her  head,  across  the  black 
tresses.  The  other  sister,  Clara,  was  moving  about  the  room 
silently,  as  though  fearful  of  awakening  the  sleeper.  This 
girl  was  the  fac  simile  of  her  twin  sister,  except  that  she  had 
a  burning  red  colour  on  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  an  unnatural 
sparkle  in  her  bright,  very  bright  eyes.  Her  slender  form 
was  arrayed  in  a  loose  white  wrapper.  The  sleeper  stirred, 
murmured,  opened  her  eyes,  and  said — 

"  Are  you  there,  Clara  ?" 

"Yes,  love;  what  will  you  have,  dear  Annie?"  inquired 
Clara,  approaching  the  bedside  softly. 

"  Give  ine  your  hand,  Clara.  This  dear  little  hand  !  how 
lovingly  and  patiently  it  has  tended  me,  through  this  long, 
long  illness.  This  poor  little,  thin  hand" — said  Annie,  fondly 
playing  with  her  sister's  fingers — "But  how  hot  it  is,  Clara  j 
how  very  hot  your  hand  is  !  You  are  feverish,  sister  j  you  have 
confined  yourself  too  closely.  Raise  the  window  a  little  way 
to  give  me  air,  and  then  go  and  take  a  walk — won't  you?" 

Clara  raised  the  window,  and  opened  an  opposite  door,  so 
that  a  current  of  air  could  pass  through  and  ventilate  tha 
mom,  without  blowing  upon  the  sick  girl.  Annie  drew  a  long, 
deep  breath,  and  smiled. 

"  That  air  is  so  pleasant.  It  breathes  so  sweet,  and  fresh 
— it  gives  me  new  life." 

Clara  returned  to  the  bedside,  and  said  cheerfully — 


284         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

"You  are  a  great  deal  better  this  morning,  dear  Annie  !" 

"  Yes  !  a  great  deal  better — I  slept  so  well — and  have  waked 
up  so  refreshed.  My  fever  is  off,  my  skin  is  moist,  the  heat 
and  tightness  have  left  my  chest,  and,  above  all,  I  can  draw  a 
dear,  blessed,  good,  deep  breath.  Oh  !  Clara,  you  can't  con- 
ceive what  a  blessing  it  is  to  be  able  to  draw  a  free  breath  — 
you  would  have  to  be  half  suffocated  for  a  month,  as  I  have 
been,  in  order  to  realize  it." 

"You  have  been  a  great  sufferer,  my  poor  dear  Annie,  but 
•thank  God — thank  God — you  are  better  now.  And  jou  look 
so  much  better,  too,"  said  Clara;  suddenly  checking  the  fervour 
of  her  feelings,  lest  it  should  agitate  Annie. 

"  Now,  then,  Clara,  go  out,  and  take  a  walk,  won't  you  ? 
Indeed,  I'm  afraid  you  will  make  yourself  ill,  by  such  close 
tonfinement.  Go  now — there's  a  dear." 

"  Presently,  presently,  Annie." 

"No — now.  I'm  going  to  make  you  go;  or,  if  you  won  t, 
I'll  talk,  and  bring  on  a  fever;  or  else,  as  the  spoiled  children 
say,  '  I'll  cry,  and  make  myself  ill ;'  "  said  Annie,  smiling. 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  so  merry,  Atfnie." 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  bid  you  ?" 

"  After  a  while — when  we've  seen  Dr.  Wood ;  his  carriage 
is  before  the  door." 

"  And  here  he  comes  up  the  stairs,"  said  Annie,  listening. 

The  family  physician  now  entered  the  room.  He  was  an 
elderly  man,  with  a  tall,  thin  figure,  blue-gray  hair,  and  a  red 
face.  He  walked  up  to  the  bedside  of  his  patient,  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  forehead,  held  her  wrist,  and  remarked  cheer- 
ingly— 

"  You  are  very  much  improved  this  morning,  my  child  " 

"Oh,  yes!  Dr.  Wood,  that  last  medicine  did  me  a  great 
deal  of  good.  I  slept  sweetly  last  night,  and  I  have  waked 
np  this  morning — so  hungry.  What  can  I  have  to  eat  ?" 

"  Still  thinking  of  her  stomach  !  Clara  !  Tell  John  Brown, 
T  say,  he  had  better  go  into  the  eating  line.  Set  up  a  refectory 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  285 

or  something.  Annie  '11  be  an  excellent  helpmate  in  such  a 
concern ;  she'll  be  able  to  cater  for  other  people's  palates  by 
the  test  of  her  own." 

Clara  laughed  merrily;  but  Annie  pretended  not  to  hear, 
and  reiterated  her  complaint  and  question. 

"  I  want  something  to  eat,  Doctor !  What  can  I  have  to 
•at?" 

"  Why,  you  can  have  roast  beef  and  plum  pudding,  but  you 
ihan't." 

"  Pshaw !  Can  I  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  an  egg,  and 
inme  toast?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  complainingly,  "you  can  have  a 
.5up  of rice  water,  and  a  soda  cracker" 

"  Oh,  Doctor  !"  groaned  Annie,  making  a  face. 

"  Or  some  good water-gruel." 

Annie  turned  her  head  away  in  disgust. 

"  Or  else  some  excellent barley-water." 

Annie  exhibited  strong  symptoms  of  hydrophobia. 

"  Oh,  Doctor  !"  exclaimed  she,  "  can  you  give  me  nothing 

but  a  choice  among  the  different  preparations  of tcaterf 

Can't  I  have  a  little  chicken  soup  ?" 

"  Not  for  a  day  or  two  to  come,  my  child." 

The  Doctor  then  assured  his  patient  that  she  was  getting 
well  fast;  and  that  by  Sunday  she  should  have  something 
savory  for  dinner,  and  took  his  leave. 

"  Clara  !  do  you  hear  ?  The  Doctor  says  I  shall  have  some- 
thing good  to  eat  Sunday,  and  that  is  day  after  to-morrow. 
And  it  shall  be  fried  chicken — no  ! — it  shall  be  stewed  oysters, 
f  lara !  do  you  hear  ?  Tell  father  the  Doctor  says  I  am  to 
have  some  stewed  oysters  by  day  after  to-morrow — do  you 
heai  now  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  darling,  I  hear;  I  will  tell  father." 

But  Clara  did  not  think  that  the  Doctor  had  particularly 
recommended,  nor  did  she  believe  that  he  would  particularly 
approve,  the  dish  selected.  However,  unwilling  to  vex  her 


286         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

beloved  invalid,  she  refrained  from  opposing  her  now,  and 
followed  the  Doctor  out  of  the  room. 

"  Clara !  come  back  here  !" 

"  Well,  darling  ?"  said  Clara,  returning. 

"  Come  close — ask  the  doctor,  when  you  get  down  stairs,  if 
he  thinks  my  lungs  are  affected — ask  him  confidentially,  you 
know,  and  then  come  up  and  tell  me  the  truth — will  you  ?" 

Clara  left  the  room,  and  soon  returned  with  A  very  cheerful 
countenance. 

"  Did  you  ask  the  Doctor,  Clara?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Annie  ;  and  he  assures  me  that  you  are  not  at 
all  consumptive,  at  present,  and  will  never  be  so,  if  you  take 
care  of  yourself.  He  says  that  you  have  been  suffering  from 
an  attack  of  neu — neu — I  forget — but,  any  way  not  consump- 
tion/' 

Annie  smileu. 

"That  is  a  great  deal  off  my  mind,  dear  Clara;  I  have 
such  a  dread  of  pulmonary  consumption;  I  was  so  much 
afraid  I  had  contracted  it,  and,  indeed,  I  didn't  want  to  die 
yet." 

"  And  make  poor  John  Brown  a  widower,  before  he  becomes 
a  husband — to  be  sure  not;  but  there's  no  danger  these  fifty 
years  to  come,  thanks  to  our  good  Doctor." 

"  Yes ;  thanks  to  our  good  Doctor,  for  he  is  good,  Clara ; 
and  I  feel  such  a  glow  of  gratitude  to  him,  when  I  think  of 
all  his  kindness — his  attending  poor  mother  for  two  years  be- 
fore she  died,  and  his  'tending  me  so  constantly  through  this 
tedious  illness" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  And  father  asked  him  for  his  bill  last  week, 
and  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  Why,  '  You  don't  owe  me 
anything,  Mr.  Gray.' " 

"  And  he  with  such  a  large  family,  too  !" 

"  Yes ;  he  is  a  poor  man  himself.  But  he  is  like  all  others 
of  his  profession.  They  do  more  good,  and  get  less  thanks, 
than  any  other  set  of  men  whatever;  they  jump  up  at  al] 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  287 

hours  of  the  day  or  night,  and  in  all  weathers,  to  wait  upon 
all  sorts  of  people,  rich  or  poor,  paid  or  not  paid — thanked  or 
abused,  it  is  all  the  same — and  they  get  no  credit;  it  seems  to 
be  expected  of  them,  and  they  do  it.  I  have  known  a  Doctor 
to  jump  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  a  severe  snow  storm, 
to  visit  a  poor  man  with  the  rheumatism,  from  whom  it  would 
have  been  folly  to  have  expected  pay ;  and  the  man,  too,  seemed 
to  consider  it  quite  a  matter  of  course;  and  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  even  said,  '  Thank  you,  Doctor.'  " 

"  Oh,  well !  he  thanked  him  in  his  heart,  Clara ;  at  K*st, 
if  he  feels  like  me,  he  did.  I,  for  one,  say,  God  blesu  the 
medical  faculty  in  general,  and  our  own  dear  old  Doctor  in 
particular.  Oh  !  Clara,  you  don't  know  how  grateful  one  feels 
towards  the  person  who  has  conjured  away  all  our  bad  feelings, 
and  restored  us  to  comfort  and  enjoyment.  And  he  has  raised 
me  almost  from  the  grave.  Oh !  I  love  the  good  Doctor  so 
much.  And  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  forehead,  just 
now,  I  wanted  to  take  the  dear,  kind  hand  and  press  it  to  my 
lips  and  to  my  bosom ;  but  that  would  have  been  very  shock- 
ing, I  suppose  ?" 

"  Very,"  said  Clara,  laughing. 

"  I'm  in  earnest,  though,"  said  the  sick  girl,  as  the  tears 
swam  in  her  eyes,  "  for  I  love  the  good  Doctor  more  than  either 
of  my  uncles,  and  next  to  my  father,  for  he  has  'tended  me 
long  and  patiently,  and  saved  my  life;  and  I  like  life,  Clara, 
and  I  don't  like  to  die.  He  has  taken  away  all  my  bad  feelings 
and  restored  me  to  enjoyment — all  '  without  money  and  with- 
out price' — and  so  I  love  the  Doctor,  and  I  shall  ahcai/s  love 
him ;  and  the  very  next  time  he  comes  to  see  me,  I  am  going 
tc  kiss  him,  and  tell  him  so,  to  ease  my  heart;  and  you  see 
if  I  don't;  for,"  added  the  child  petulantly,  "I'm  cick,  ana 
sick  people  must  have  their  own  way." 

"  To  be  sure,  my  pet,  so  you  shall — kiss  the  Doctor  of  the 
Doctor's  dog,  or  anyboly  else  you  please,  and  as  much  as  you 
please" 


288         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

"  Hush  !     Is  not  that  tather  singing  ?"  asked  Annie. 

<l  Yes,  dear;  he  has  been  singir.g  at  his  work  all  the  morn« 
ing;  sawing  wood,  and  singing;  pumping  water  and  singing; 
tuakitig  a  fire  and  singing" 

"  Oh  !  I  know,"  murmured  Annie,  as  an  expression  of 
ineffable  tenderness  came  into  her  face ;  "  dear  father !  he's 
singing  because  I  am  out  of  danger." 

"Yes;  he  is  so  glad.  He  says,  although  the  Doctor  won't 
give  him  his  bill,  as  soon  as  he  gets  his  month's  pay  he  will 
send  him  a  twenty-dollar  bill." 

"  Poor  father !  he  would  '  draw  the  spirit  from  his  breast, 
and  give  it'  for  my  sake." 

"  Hush  !  here  comes  Mrs.  Brown." 

A  fat,  cosy,  grandmotherly-looking  matron,  now  entered  the 
room,  sat  down  in  the  rocking-chair,  sighed,  and  inquired  in  a 
sad  tone — 

"  How  do  you  feel,  this  morning,  dear  ?" 

"  Very  much  better,  I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Brown.  Clara, 
ove,  go  down  now,  and  give  father  his  breakfast ;  it  must  be 
near  time  for  him  to  go  to  work;  and  get  your  own,  Clara; 
you  must  be  faint,  you've  been  up  so  long.  Mrs.  Brown  will 
remain  with  me  until  your  return.  Can't  you,  Mrs.  Brown  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure ;"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Go,  Clara, 
I'll  stay  with  Annie." 

Clara  left  the  room. 

"  There,  honey,  see  what  I  have  brought  you ;  a  nice  bowl 
of  panado,  with  port  wine  in  it." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed,  Mrs.  Brown,  but 
the  Doctor  says  I  mustn't  take  anything  stimulating." 

"  Fiddlestick !  You  mustn't  mind  all  the  Doctor  says. 
This  is  very  nourishing ;  it  will  strengthen  you.  Here,  taste, 
and  see  how  good  it  is." 

"  It  smells  very  nice,"  said  Annie,  looking  longingly  at  'he 
bowl. 

"  Tasf  o  it.     Don't  be  afraid  of  it.     It  is  very  simple." 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  289 

"It  ronks  very  good,"  said  Annie,  toying  with  the  ppoon, 
''but  I'd  nktlier  not  eat  anything  against  the  Doctor's  orders." 

"  Oh,  the  Doctor !  You  must  think  the  Doctor  is  omnipo- 
tent, but  I  don't.  Here,  let  me  raise  you  up.  Don't  be 
afraid,  and  never  mind  what  the  Doctor  says.  Do  you  think 
I  would  give  you  anything  to  hurt  you  ?  No,  I  would  not, 
for  poor  John's  sake." 

The  old  lady  propped  Annie  up  with  pillows,  and  set  the 
bowl  before  her.  Annie  took  the  spoon,  turned  about  the 
panado,  and  placed  a  morsel  to  her  lips,  in  a  cautious  and 
gingerly  manner. 

"  There  !  Ain't  it  good  ?  Poor  John  went  all  over  town 
to  get  that  port  wine  genuine." 

"  Did  John  get  it  ?"  asked  Annie,  raising  her  eyebrows  in 
an  inquiring  manner,  and  poising  the  spoon  half  way  between 
the  bowl  and  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  he  did ;  went  to  a  dozen  places  before  he  could  get 
Jhe  real  stuff.  There,  honey,  eat  it  all  up." 

And  with  renewed  confidence,  as  if  nothing  hurtful  could 
come  through  her  lover's  hands,  Annie  did  "  eat  it  all  up." 

Annie  had  scarcely  finished  her  meal,  when  the  hectic  spot 
appeared  upon  her  cheek,  her  lips  grew  bright,  and  her  eyes 
blazed  up  with  the  fearful  light  of  fever. 

"  There,  now !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  as  she  received  the 
bowl  from  Annie,  "don't  you  feel  better?  I  told  you  so! 
You  look  like  another  person.  You've  got  some  colour  now. 
Oh  !  If  I  had  you,  I'd  get  you  up  in  no  time.  Dear  me ! 
here  are  all  the  windows  up;  this  will  never  do.  It  will  give 
you  your  death  of  cold !"  and  the  grandmotherly  old  lady  let 
their,  all  down,  and  shut  the  door.  The  morning  was  very 
sultry,  and  the  room  soon  became  very  warm. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Brown,  this  is  suffocating;  plca?e  raise  the 
windows  again  The  Doctor  says  there  must  be  a  free  circula- 
tion of  fresh  air  in  the  room." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  shall  do  nc  such  thing      It  might  be  the 


290         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

death  of  you.  You  mustn't  put  so  much  dependence  in  what 
the  Doctor  says.  Sure,  if  he  is  such  a  knowing  man,  it  is  a 
•wonder  he  loses  so  many  patients." 

It  is  a  wonder  he  did  not  lose  all,  when  Mrs.  Brown,  who 
was  a  regular  visiter  of  the  sick,  followed,  like  fate,  in  his 
footsteps. 

''  There,  my  dear,  I  hear  them  coming  up  stairs.  I  must 
be  going.  I  have  got  to  call  and  see  Mrs.  Piper's  baby ;  it's 
got  the  summer  complaint." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  the  cick,  dear  Mrs.  Brown." 

"  It's  no  more  than  my  duty,  Annie,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  solemn  self-complacency.  "  Good-bye,  honey ;  make 
haste  and  get  well,  and  be  my  daughter,  you  know.  John's 
house  is  nearly  finished.  I  believe  I  hear  John's  voice  now, 
down  stairs." 

Mr.  Gray  now  entered  the  room,  to  bid  Annie  good-bye, 
before  going  to  his  work. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Brown  ?  Won't  you  sit  ?"  said  he 
to  the  old  lady. 

"  Ah  !  good-morning,  Mr.  Gray.  No,  I  thank  you,  I  was 
just  going ;  good-day."  And  the  old  lady  went  down  stairs. 

"  You  are  looking  very  well  this  morning,  my  pretty  Annie," 
said  Gray. 

"  I  am  almost  well,  dear  father." 

"  What  is  that  I  must  get  for  you  by  Sunday,  darling  ?" 

"  Oh !  father !  yes  j  some  oysters,  some  nice  Nanticoke 
oysters,  to  stew  by  Sunday.  The  Doctor  says  I  am  to  have 
something  nice  on  Sunday ;  and  so  I  want  oysters." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  Annie ;  father  will  get  them,"  said 
lie,  stroking  her  hair. 

i:Is  John  Brown  down  stairs,  father?" 

'*  Yes,  darling,  waiting  to  come  up.  Are  you  well  enough 
to  see  him  ?" 

"  Oh  I  yes,  dear  father,  let  him  come." 

"Well,  tl-en,  my  sweet  Annie,  I  must  bid  you  good-bye  for 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  291 

the  present.  I'll  send  him  up;  and  see  here,  Annie,"  lower- 
ing his  voice,  "get  well,  and  then — won't  we  have  a  fine  wed- 
ding ?"  Annie  reddened.-  The  father  was  going  out — she 
recalled  him. 

"  See  here,  father ,  make  Clara  take  a  walk,  will  you  ?  She 
it  too  much  confined." 

"  Very  well.     I'll  attend  to  it.     Good-bye,  darling." 

"Good-bye,  dear  father.  Don't  work  too  hard,"  said 
Annie,  as  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  received  his 
parting  kiss. 

Annie's  next  visiter  was  John  Brown,  her  betrothed,  who 
came  in,  accompanied  by  Clara. 

"Now,  dear  Annie,"  said  John,  "why  didn't  you  let  me 
come  in  before ;  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell  you  about, 
and  not  ten  minutes  to  say  it  in.  Why,  Annie !  my  gracious  ! 
how  well  you  are  looking.  Beautiful !  You  sick  ?  Why,  your 
cheeks  and  lips  are  glowing,  and  your  eyes  brighter  than  I 
ever  saw,"  exclaimed  John,  in  admiration,  mistaking  the  burn- 
ing fire  of  fever  for  the  blooming  rose  of  health.  "  Come, 
you  mustn't  he  there  much  longer;  you  must  get  up,  and  come 
and  see  my  little  now  house  (our  little  new  house,  sweet 
Annie,"  said  he,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper) ;  "  it  is  so 
pretty — painted  lead  colour,  with  close  white  shutters.  I  have 
got  the  fence  put  up,  and  the  garden  laid  off;  and  I've  planted 
some  peas  (which  we  will  have  for  dinner  the  first  time  Clara 
and  the  old  man  come  to  see  us,  dear);  and  I  want  you  up, 
that  you  may  go  with  me  to  select  some  furniture.  I  have  got 
Bfiventy-fivc  dollars  towards  it." 

"  And  I  have  got  twenty-five,"  said  Annie,  "  saved  from 
my  needlework." 

"  Keep  it,  keep  it,  darling ;  surely,  if  an  Anerican  lad 
can't  furnish  a  little  house  for  his  bride,  without  taxing  her 
earnings,  he  must  be  a,  very  worthless  fellow." 

Annie  smiled,  but  in  the  midst  of  her  smile  an  expression 
of  pain  traversed  her  countenance,  *W  colour  died  away  from 


29'2  TEIGHBOURS'     PRESCRIPTIONS. 

Lor  face  for  an  instant,  and  then  rushed  back  in  a  crimson 
glow.  Clara  approached  the  bed,  and  bent  over  her  anxiously. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Annie?" 

"  Nothing — a  sharp,  sudden  pain ;  it  is  over  n  )w,"  suid 
Annie. 

"  A  stitch,"  suggested  John. 

Annie's  face  again  quivered,  grew  pale,  then  flushed.  She 
grasped  her  sister's  hand  lightly. 

"  Dear  Annie,  you  are  suffering ;  you  have  had  too  much 
company;  you  have  been  excited  and  worried.  John,  go 
home — that's  a  good  boy ;  you  may  come  again  this  evening." 

"  Good-bye,  Annie,"  said  John  Brown. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,"  replied  Annie. 

John  Brown  was  gone. 

"  Oh  !  Clara,  I  am  very  ill." 

"  Dear,  dear  Annie,  I  am  so  sorry ;  where  are  you  sick  ?" 

"  I  am  in  excruciating  pain,"  cried  Annie,  as  her  face  flushed 
and  paled  rapidly. 

"  I  will  send  for  the  Doctor." 

"No,  no;  he  could  not  be  found  now;  he  is  on  his  round. 
Send  for  John's  mother ;  she  is  a  sort  of  doctress ;  she,  per. 
haps,  can  think  of  something  to  relieve  me." 

Clara  hurried  down  stairs,  overtook  John,  and  sent  him  foi 
his  mother — then  hastened  back  to  her  sister.  Annie  was 
extremely  ill.  The  stimulating  food  that  she  had  taken  had 
excited  a  violent  inflammation.  The  old  lady,  Mrs.  Brown. 
soon  came  in,  exclaiming — 

"  Well,  well;  what's  the  matter  now?  John  came  running 
after  me,  as  though  he  were  crazy.  Young  people  are  so 
quickly  frightened — and  you  all  alone  by  your  two  solves- - 
pity,  poor  things,  but  what  you  had  a  mother.  Where's  your 
misery,  Annie  ?" 

Annie  explained. 

"  Ah  ha  !  I  ki>^w  it.  That  cold,  windy  water-gruel  has  dis- 
agreed w:*h  you.  So  much  for  following  after  tho  doctors 


THE     TWIN      SISTERS.  2WI 

Here !  Clara,  run  and  fetch  me  some  brandy  and  ginger,  ».»£ 
boiling  water.  Quick,  now  !  Be  in  a  hurry  !  She  must  tt  f.t. 
some  brandy-toddy,  with  ginger  in  it.  Make  haste !" 

Mrs.  Brown  made  Clara  fly  about  and  bring  her  all  t  ia 
things.  Mrs.  Brown  was  in  her  glory.  Nothing  pleased  th.*t 
dear  old  lady  better  than  to  see  a  fellow-creature  writhing  i  i 
an  agony  of  pain,  if  the  sufferings  afforded  a  fair  opportunity 
for  the  gratification  of  her  darling  propensity — doctoring.  It 
was  to  her  what  game  was  to  the  sportsman,  play  to  the  gam- 
bler, or  bull-baiting  to  the  Spaniard.  Yet  Mrs.  Brown  was 
called,  and  believed  herself  to  be,  a  very  benevolent  woman, 
very  kind  to  the  sick,  and  an  excellent  nurse.  The  old  lady 
concocted  the  dose,  and  carried  it  to  her  patient.  Anne  drank 
it  all,  and  thanked  her  poisoner. 

"And  now,  honey,"  said  she,  "I  must  go.  I  promised  to 
call  in  and  see  Mrs.  Piper's  baby  again  to-day.  The  little 
one  is  getting  no  better,  although  I  gave  it  a  dose  of  medicine 
of  my  own  preparing.  Indeed,  I  think  it  is  getting  worse. 
They've  got  that  young  Doctor  Jones  attending  it.  What 
does  he  know  about  babies !  good-bye,  Annie.  That  toddy 
will  ease  you  You  will  sleep  after  it." 

And  the  old  lady  departed,  with  the  comfortable  conscious- 
ness of  having  performed  a  good  action.  She  met  John  at 
the  street  door,  and  told  him  that  he  might  go  to  work,  as 
Annie  was  better,  and  John,  careful  not  to  disturb  the  sick 
one,  left  the  house  without  saying  good-bye.  As  may  be 
readily  supposed,  Annie  grew  rapidly  and  alarmingly  worse. 
She  suffered  excruciating  torture.  Clura  was  in  despair.  She 
sent  for  her  father,  aud  for  the  physician.  Mr.  Gray  followed 
the  summons  immediately.  The  Doctor  came  in  the  afternoon. 
He  never  suspected  the  cause  of,  and  was  wholly  unable  to  ac- 
count for,  the  dreadful  change  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
patient.  He  taxed  his  skill  to  the  utmost  for  her  relief  Ha 
remained  with  her  all  the  afternoon ;  then,  promising  to  ri» 


294         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

turn  early  in  the  morning,  he  left  her  somewhat  easier,  and 
went  to  another  patient. 

Not  far  from  Mr.  Gray's  humble  dwelling  stood  a  house  of 
more  pretensions  to  quality.  It  was  occupied  by  Mr.  Piper, 
a  rising  young  lawyer,  and  his  wife.  They  had  one  infant, 
upon  whom  they  both  doted  with  all  the  fondness  of  young 
parents  for  their  first  and  only  child.  But  now  the  babe  was 
ill,  and  the  father  and  the  mother  wild  with  alarm.  Mr. 
Piper  had  called  in  Doctor  Jones,  a  young  physician  Df  emi- 
nent talent,  one  who  had  already  acquired  a  large  practice, 
and  who  had  effected  several  remarkable  cures.  When  he 
arrived  at  Mrs.  Piper's  house,  he  found  the  pale  young  mother, 
with  the  babe  in  her  arms,  walking  him  about  the  floor.  She 
eat  down,  and  laid  the  babe  across  her  lap  for  the  Doctor's  in- 
spection, watching  the  expression  of  his  countenance  eagerly. 
He  told  her  that  the  babe  was  suffering  under  only  a  very 
slight  attack  of  cholera  infantum,  and  that  his  recovery 
depended  more  upon  her  own  careful  nursing,  than  upon 
medicine.  He  charged  her  to  let  the  child  take  no  food  what- 
ever, except  that  which  nature  had  provided  j  and  giving  a  few 
peremptory  but  judicious  directions  for  its  treatment,  he  wrote 
a  prescription,  and  left  the  house.  The  doting  mother  was 
re-assured,  and  smiled  again.  In  a  day  or  two  the  babe  was 
much  better,  though  not  quite  restored  to  health.  He  was 
recovering  slowly  but  surely  under  the  young  Doctor's  excellent 
method  of  treatment,  when  the  evil  genius  of  the  physician 
sent  the  news  of  the  babe's  illness  to  Mrs.  Brown,  who  straight- 
way considered  it  her  "  duty"  to  go  and  see  the  sick  baby. 
Upon  that  fatal  morning,  something  in  the  appearance  of  the 
infant  tad  aroused  the  very  excitable  fears  of  his  mother,  and 
ehe  felt  and  looked  very  uneasy  when  Mrs.  Brown  entered. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Piper.  How  do  you  do  ?  I  heard 
that  your  little  one  was  very  ill,  and  I  thought  I  would  step 
111  and  see  it." 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  295 

"  Indeed,  I  am  very  grateful,  Mrs.  Brown.  Please  look  at 
him,  and  tell  uie  how  you  think  he  is." 

Mrs.  Brown  took  the  infant  upon  her  lap,  and  looked 
solemnly  and  wistfully  at  him ;  put  her  hand  upon  his  chest, 
and  upon  his  head ;  and  finally  poked  her  great  finger  into  his 
mouth,  and  felt  his  gums;  then  turned  up  the  whites  of  her 
eyes,  and  ejaculated — 

'•Ah!  Lord!" 

"  Oh !  Mrs.  Brown,  you  don't  say  so !"  exclaimed  tho 
nervous  mother,  in  affright.  "  Is  he  so  bad  ?" 

"  Who  is  'tending  him  ?"  inquired  the  old  lady,  without 
replying  to  the  question. 

"Why,  Dr.  Jones — Dr.  Jones.  Oh!  is  he  very  ill,  Mrs. 
Brown  ?" 

'frDr.  Jot.es !  That  young  man !  Why,  t'other  day  he 
was  no  taller  than  my  knee.  He  a  Doctor !" 

"  They  say  he's  a  very  successful  practitioner.  But,  oh  ! 
dear  Mrs.  Brown,  please  tell  me — is  the  baby  very  sick  ?"  said 
the  mother,  as  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  Pretty  sick.  What  has  that  young  man  (I  can't  call  him 
a  Doctor),  ordered  for  it  ?" 

"  Why,  this  is  it,"  replied  the  trembling  mother,  showing 
i  little  folded  packet  of  small  powders. 

"  Umph-humph  !  Calomel  and  prepared  chalk,  I  suppose. 
That  will  not  do  it  any  good.  If  you  keep  on  giving  that  to 
the  child,  you'll  kill  it." 

"  But  the  Doctor"^— 

«  Oh  !  the  Doctor !  What  does  he  know  about  babies  ?  Zfe 
lever  was  a  mother.  I've  had  thirteen  children — and  raised 
two,  and  buried  eleven;  and  I  should  think  I  ought  to  under- 
stand nursing  children." 

The  infant  here  became  very  fretful,  and  the  mother  very 
uneasy,  and  Mrs.  Brown  very  loquacious  and  didactic. 

'<  Oh  !  dear  Mrs.  Brown,  what  had  I  better  do  ?" 

"  Stop.     Have  you  got  any  laudanum  ?" 
18 


295         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

"  Fes j  but" 

"Well,  get  it,  girl,  and  bring  me  a  spoonful  of  water  in  a 
cup." 

This  direction  was  given  to  a  maid  servant  who  was  standing 
in  the  room,  and  who  forthwith  brought  the  required  articles. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,JVIrs.  Brown?"  inquired  the 
mother,  who  was  pacing  the  floor,  with  the  babe  in  her  arms. 

"  Give  the  child  a  few  drops  of  laudanum." 

'•  Oh  !  Mrs.  Brown,  I'm  afraid" 

"  Never  mind  what  you're  afraid  of.  This  is  the  shortest 
way  to  stop  the  child's  complaints.  I'm  a  better  judge  than 
you  are,"  persisted  the  old  lady,  holding  the  cup  in  one  hand, 
and  dropping  the  laudadum  slowly  with  the  other.  The  timid 
young  mother  suffered  herself  to  be  out-talked  and  overruled. 
The  laudanum  was  dropped  and  poured  down  the  babe's  throat 
The  child  dropped  into  a  deep  sleep. 

"  There,  now  !     Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?     See  how  nice  he' 
Bleeping.     Don't  tell  me  about  -Doctors ;  one  old  woman  is 
worth  twenty  Doctors,  for  curing  babies." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  Mrs.  Piper.  "  He  is  sleeping  now 
more  quietly  than  he  has  been  for  a  long  time." 

"  Well,  good-morning,  my  dear  child.  Whenever  you  want 
me,  send  for  me.  I  am  always  ready  to  visit  the  sick." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Brown !  Indeed,  I  am  very,  very 
grateful  to  you.  You've  given  my  poor  baby  relief,  and  you 
couldn't  have  done  me  a  greater  favour.  I  shall  never  forget 
your  kindness,"  said  the  poor  woman,  earnestly. 

"  I  have  only  done  my  duty,"  said  the  old  lady,  meekly  j 
and  she  went  off,  enjoying  the  reward  of  4<au  approving  ecu- 
science." 

"  What  ac  excellent  woman !"  murmured  the  mother,  as 
she  returned  to  her  infant's  cradle,  after  seeing  Mrs.  Brown 
out.  But  an  exclamation  of  horror  broke  from  her  lips,  as 
her  glance  fell  upon  the  child.  The  infant  had  waked  up  ic 
a  8f usrn.  A  little  fretfuluess,  a  slight  fever,  in  thp  babe,  wa* 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  ^97 

enough  at  any  time  to  arouse  all  the  mother's  worst  fears ,  but 
now  —now  that  she  saw  her  child's  features  convulsed  and 
limbs  quivering,  in  a  frightful  spasm,  her  alarm  and  grief 
exceeded  all  description. 

At  that  moment,  Dr.  Jones  entered  the  room,  and,  seeing 
the  state  of  the  child,  he  demanded  rather  peremptorily,  as 
was  his  custom,  what  had  been  given  to  the  babe.  And  the 
pale  and  trembling  mother  told  him,  informing  him  at  the 
same  time  who  had  prescribed  the  dose.  "  Out  of  bis  grief 
and  his  vexation,"  the  young  physician  exclaimed — 

"  By  Heaven,  madam,  she  has  killed  your  child  !" 

"Oh!  don't  say  so,  Doctor !  Don't!  don't!  I  should  go 
mad  !  Oh,  no !  It  can't  be  !  God  would  not  take  my  baby 
away  from  me,  that  I  love  so  dearly !" 

Losing  all  self-control,  she  sank  down  by  the  side  of  the 
cradle.  Her  grief  became  so  poignant  as  to  render  her  in- 
capable of  discharging  her  duties.  Seeing  the  state  of  affairs, 
and  being  ignorant  of  their  family  resources,  Dr.  Jones  sent 
off  for  Mr.  Piper.  It  was  near  night  when  the  babe's  spasms 
went  off,  and  he  sunk  into  a  coma. 


It  was  the  night  of  the  same  day  upon  which  Annie  Gray 
had  received  her  death-draught  from  Mrs.  Brown.  The  Doc- 
tor had  left  her  comparatively  easy  a  few  hours  previous. 
Mr.  Gray,  poor  man,  suspecting  no  danger,  had  retired  to  rest. 
Clara  had  lighted  the  night  taper,  and,  setting  it  upon  the 
hearth,  took  her  seat  by  her  sister.  Clara,  also,  was  free  from 
apprehension  now;  but  she  could  not,  she  knew  not  why; 
make  up  her  mind  to  go  bed.  Annie  was  lying  quite  still 
She  was  easy,  but  with  the  fatal  ease  induced  by  mortification 
She  was  dying,  and  she  knew  it. 

«  Clara !" 

"Well,  Annie?" 

"Won't  you  lie  down,  love?" 


298         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTION  a. 

''Presently,  dear  Annie;  I  am  not  sleepy  yet.  How  do 
you  feel,  Auuie '?" 

"  Quite  easy.     Perfectly  free  from  pain  of  any  sort." 

"  I  am  so  glad/'  said  poor,  unsuspicious  Clara. 

The  silence  continued  unbroken  in  the  room,  except  by  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  for  many  minutes.  Then  Annie  called, 
in  a  low  voice — 

"  Clara !" 

"  Well,  sister  ?" 

"  Look  in  my  little  Bible,  and  bring  me  that  folded  paper 
— and  a  lead  pencil." 

"  Dear  Annie,  what  is  it  you  want  to  do  ?  You  must  go 
to  sleep,  darling." 

"  So  I  will,  very  soon,  and  take  a  long  nap ;  but  give  me 
them  first." 

"  Here  they  are,  then,  Annie." 

"  Raise  me  up." 

"  Why,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  darling  ?" 

"Just  to  add  four  words  to  that  paper." 

"  Let  me  do  it." 

"  No." 

Annie  feebly  scratched  four  words  to  the  end  of  some 
writing,  and  fell  back  exhausted  upon  her  pillow,  retaining 
the  paper  in  her  hand.  She  lay  still  a  long  time,  and  again 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  became  awfully  distinct.  At  last; 
again  she  called — 

"  Clara !" 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  What  day  is  this  ?" 

"  Friday,  you  know,  dear.  Day  after  to-morrow  you  are 
to  have  the  oysters." 

"  Friday,  Saturday,  Sunday.  Clara !  take  this  paper,  and 
put  it  away  safely ;  and  do  not  read  it  until  Monday,  and  iheu 
go  by  it,  will  you  ?" 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  dear  Annie  ?'* 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS  299 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean.     Promise  me,  will  yon  ?" 

"  Yes,  love,  certainly.     Now  try  to  sleep,  dear  Annie." 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

Why  was  the  silence  in  that  peaceful  room  so  awful  ?  Why 
tit  kcd  the  clock  so  loud  and  fast,  and  why  fell  its  strokes  so 
heavily  upon  the  heart  of  the  watcher  ?  She  did  not  know  it 
was  counting  away  the  last  seconds  of  a  dying  girl.  At 
length,  the  dread  silence  was  relieved  by  the  low,  sweet  music 
of  Annie's  voice — 

"  Clara  !" 

"Darling?" 

'•Where  is  father?" 

"  Gone  to  bed." 

"  Give  my  love  to  him." 

"  Annie  !  Annie  !     What  do  yon  mean  ?" 

"Nothing,  only  he  forgot  to  kiss  me." 

She  lay  again  silent  for  a  few  moments;  then  for  the  last 
titue  called  lowly — 

"  Clara !" 

(She  seemed  to  love  the  iteration  of  her  sister's  name.) 

"  What  now,  love  ?" 

"  Tell  dear  John  Brown,  I  <jay,  God  bless  him." 

"  Annie  !  Annie  !  Oh  !  dear  me,  what  is  the  matter  witu 
you?  I  am — I'm  so  uneasy.  I — I'll  call  up  father,"  cried 
Clara,  as  in  her  fright  she  seized  the  taper,  and  flashed  its 
light  upon  her  sister's  face. 

Annie's  face  was  white  as  marble,  but  a  sweet  smile  hovered 
over  it.  Clara's  countenance  was  blanched  to  a  "  violet  yale- 
nesa,"  and  she  shook  in  every  limb. 

"  Don't  look  so  frightened,  dearest  sister  j  I'm  g>ing  to  slojp 
now." 

"  Are  you  at  ease  ?" 

"  Perfectly.     Kiss  me." 

Clara  pressed  her  warm  lips  to  the  cold  brow  of  the  dying 
girl.  Re-assured,  she  resumed  her  seat.  Clara  was  ninous 


SOO        NEIGHBOURS'   PRESCRIPTIONS. 

Oh  !  why  did  that  clock  tick  so  loud  and  fast,  and  why  jarred 
its  strokes  so  heavily  upon  the  excited  nerves  of  Clara  ?  It 
counted  away,  fast  and  faster,  the  fleeting  seconds  of  the  part- 
ing seraph. 

"Father!  Clara!  John  I"  whispered  Annie. 

Clara  bent  over  her  sister,  and  looked  silently  on  her  fac«. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  countenance  was  still,  save  for  the 
imile  that  still  hovered  upon  her  lips. 

"  She  is  talking  in  her  sleep,"  thought  Clara. 

"  Mother  !  mother  !"  murmured  the  dying  girl. 

Again  Clara  looked  upon  her  sister's  face,  but  it  was  perfectly 
atill ;  even  the  smile  had  fled.  Annie  Gray's  gentle  spirit  had 
passed  away. 

"  She  has  gone  sound  asleep  at  last,  thank  God,"  said  Clara. 

Morning  dawned.  Mr.  Gray  rapped  at  his  daughter's 
chamber  door,  to  inquire  how  Annie  had  slept.  Clara  opened 
«he  door. 

"  What !  been  up  all  night,  poor  Clara  ?  Could  you  get  no 
me  to  sit  up  but  yourself?" 

"  I  could  not  have  left  Annie,  father." 

11  How  does  she  seem  ?" 

"  Better.     Still  sleeping." 

"  Thank  Heaven !" 

The  father  hurried  away  from  the  door,  to  finish  dressing. 
After  having  raised  the  window  and  opened  the  blinds,  Clara 
returned  to  her  beloved  sleeper,  and  looked  upon  her  face. 
The  face  was  cold  and  stiff — the  eyes  half  open,  and  stony — 
the  blue  lips  were  apart,  and  the  white  teeth  glistening  between 
them.  The  hand  that  Clara  had  taken  fell  heavily  from  her 
gra^p.  With  a  heart-rending  cry,  Clara  cast  herself  upon  the 
body  of  her  sister,  and  fainted.  That  cry  brougl.t  the  father 
back  into  the  room.  The  father  was  a  strung  man.  He  suf- 
fered, as  he  gazed  upon  his  dead  Annie,  as  deeply  as  Clara  had  • 
yet  no  tear  sprung  to  his  eye — no  groan  broke  from  his  lips. 
The  muscles  of  his  iron  face  worked  convulsively — his  broad 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  301 

ihest  heaved,  as  he  stood  some  moments  looking  upon  the 
sisters.  Then,  gently  lifting  the  insensible  Clara  from  the 
body,  he  bore  her  to  the  next  room,  laid  her  upon  the  bed, 
and  calmly  walked  down  stairs  to  send  for  Mrs.  Brown.  That 
benevolent  lady  was  not  at  home.  She  was  occupied  with 
laying  out  Mrs.  Piper's  baby,  which  had  just  expired.  Some 
other  neighbours,  however,  tendered  their  services  to  see  to 
things. 


Sunday  came — the  Sunday  of  poor  Annie  Gray's  funeral. 
Clara  had  exhausted  her  strength  by  giving  way  to  the  wildest 
expressions  of  grief  and  despair,  and  now  lay  prostrate  upon 
the  very  same  bed  on  which  Annie  bad  yielded  up  her  gentle 
spirit.  Clara  lay  quivering,  gasping,  fainting,  under  the  weak- 
ness induced  by  a  violent  outbreak  of  sorrow.  Low  moans 
and  sighs  were  all  that  escaped  her  now.  The  rooms  below 
stairs  were  filling  with  funeral  guests.  Mrs.  Brown,  who  had 
taken  the  direction  of  affairs,  was  in  a  high  state  of  excitement 
and  business.  Poor  Mr.  Gray  was  standing  about  in  every- 
body's way,  having  nothing  to  do,  looking  heart-broken,  gazing 
into  vacancy.  Mrs.  Brown,  in  her  flying  hither  and  thither, 
ran  against  him,  and  nearly  overturned  him ;  started,  begged 
his  pardon,  and  asked  him  for  his  hat,  "  to  pin  a  piece  of  crape 
'round  it."  Poor  Gray  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  looked 
around  in  perplexity. 

"  Your  hat,  Mr.  Gray — your  hat,  if  you  please,  to  pin  a 
piece  of  crape  on  it." 

His  face  worked  convulsively.  He  gave  her  the  nat,  and 
turned  away.  The  old  lady  looked  at  him,  and  said,  while  she 
fixed  his  hat — 

"  Dear  !  dear !  Mr.  Gray,  don't  take  on  so — don't.  Bear  this 
J«;';e  a  man — a  Christian  man.  Annie's  gone  to  heaven  She 
was  a  sweet,  good" — 

•   Don't,  don't,"  whimpered  poor  Gray. 


202         NEIGHBOURS'    PRESCRIPTIONS. 

"  But  I  must — I  must  talk  to  you.  It's  for  your  own  good 
You  know  I'm  your  best  friend,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  know  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  mine,  Mrs. 
Brown.  You  were  like  a  mother  to  the  poor  girl  that's — 
(bat's 

"  That's  gone.  Yes }  and  if  she  had  taken  my  advice,  in- 
stead of  following  after  Doctors,  from  the  first,  she  would  have 
been  living  now." 

"God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Brown — God  bless  you.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness  to  the  poor  motherless  girl.  May 
God  reward  you." 

Should  not  that  blessing  have  "  heaped  coals  of  fire  upon  her 


"  I've  tried  to  do  my  duty,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  the  self-sufficient 
old  lady,  as  she  moved  off  with  a  bundle  of  white  cambric  for 
the  hack-driver's  hats. 

In  the  mean  time,  Clara  lay  upon  the  bed  in  the  upper 
room.  The  guests  continued  to  arrive.  She  heard  their  slow 
steps,  their  murmuring  tones,  and  their  whispered  condole- 
ments.  At  last,  all  was  still.  Then  the  tones  of  the  clergy- 
man's voice  were  heard,  as  he  read  the  sublime  funeral  service 
of  the  Episcopal  church.  At  length,  his  voice  ceased.  Then, 
by  the  moving  of  many  feet,  and  the  slow  rolling  of  carriage 
wheels,  Clara  knew  that  the  corpse  was  being  borne  out,  .*nd 
that  the  funeral  procession  was  in  the  act  of  being  formed. 

"  Farewell,  Annie  !    Farewell,  playmate !    Farewell,  sister  !" 

These  words  burst  from  her  lips  in  heart-breaking  sobs, 
many,  many  times ;  and  as  long  as  the  retreating  sound  of  the 
wheels  was  heard,  she  gasped,  from  time  to  time — 

"  Farewell,  Annie  !     Farewell,  dear  Annie  !" 

"  How  often,"  says  a  celebrated  divine,  "  is  the  excitement 
of  thought  and  feeling  so  great,  that  but  for  the  interruptions 
of  humble  cares  and  trifles — the  interpositions  of  a  wise  Pro^l- 
dence — the  mind  and  frame  would  sink  under  them  entirely  *." 

Tho  mechanic's  daughter  could  not  indulge  her  sorrow  m 


THE     TWIN     SISTERS.  803 

inaction.  Her  father  would  be  coming  back,  bringing  hia 
brothers  to  supper.  So,  after  a  while,  she  was  compelled  to 
arise.  She  bathed  her  eyes,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  pre- 
pare the  meal. 

On  Monday  morning,  Clara  thought  of  her  sister's  paper 
She  went  to  seek  it.  It  merely  contained  some  common  but, 
too  much  neglected  rules  for  the  preservation  of  health.  It 
was  evidently  written  for  Clara.  It  was  dated  a  month  back, 
at  a  time  at  which,  as  Clara  recollected,  Annie  had  despaired 
of  recovery.  The  four  concluding  words  were  written  upon 
the  last  night  of  her  existence,  and  in  very  unsteady  charac- 
ters. It  was  headed — 

Annie's  Legacy  to  the  Consumptive. 

You  are,  or  you  believe  yourself  to  be,  consumptive.  You 
wish,  above  all  things,  for  health  and  strength.  You  are  poor, 
and  wish  that  you  were  able  to  buy  some  of  the  patent,  all- 
curing,  all-promising  specifics  advertised  in  the  newspapers. 
Thank  God,  rather,  for  the  poverty  that  prevents  your  pur- 
chasing. Taking  patent  medicines  is  like  drinking  in  the 
dark,  where  some  of  the  vessels  are  filled  with  wholesome 
drink,  and  some  with  deadly  poisons.  You  may  chance  upon 
the  right  draught,  or  you  may  not.  It  is  a  great  risk.  But 
the  medicines  for  your  debility  are  cheap — cheap  as  sunshine ; 
and  safe — safe  as  nature.  They  are — air,  water,  exercise, 
•liet.  There  is  nothing  original  in  the  rules  I  am  about  to 
transcribe.  They  are  as  old  as  common  sense.  You  mny 
read  them  in  many  books  and  newspapers,  and  hear  them  at 
lectures ;  but  yet  you  may  not  heed  them  more  than  I  did, 
before  it  was  too  late.  Perhaps,  though,  when  they  come  as 
a  legacy  from  your  sister,  who  has  lost  health  and  life  by  the 
neglect  of  them,  why,  then  they  may  exercise  all  the  moral 
iuflusnce  of  "  the  last  dying  speech  and  confession"  of  a  man 
about  to  be  hanged. 

]  ,  Batl  o  in  tepid  crater  every  day.     The  "  benefit  of  bathing 


804         NEIGHBOURS'   PRESCRIPTIONS. 

can  only  be  justly  estimated  by  those  that  practise  it."  Wear 
flannel  winter  (and  summer,  too,  if  you  can  bear  it)  next  your 
skin.  It  will  keep  the  skin  in  a  healthful  condition. 

2.  Take  a  walk  every  fine  day.     But  that  will  not  be  exer- 
cise enough,  or  of  the  kind,  for  a  consumptive.     Make  beds, 
rub  tables,  sweep,  or  do  something  else  that  will  exercise  the 
arms  and  chest.     Sing  or  read  aloud. 

3.  Ventilate  your  rooms,  air  your  bedding,  clothing,  &c., 
every  day.     The  lungs  require  pure  air,  as  well  as  the  palate 
requires  pure  water.     Item.  Do   not  keep  a  stove  in  your 
common  sitting  room  \  what  it  saves  in  fuel,  it  costs  in  health. 
I  have  found  from  experience  that  the  burnt  air  from  hot 
stoves,  and  the  thick  vapour  from  anything  that  may  be  cook- 
ing upon  it,  is  very  unpleasant,  and  very  injurious  to  weak 
lungs.     Use  a  fireplace  or  a  Franklin  stove  in  preference;  for 
then  everything  injurious  is  carried  up  the  chimney. 

4.  If  you  can,  leave  off  gradually  the  use  of  strong  tea  and 
roffee.     They  keep  up  a  slow,  consuming  fever  in  your  system 
(it  has  been  so  with  me) ;  drink  milk  instead.     When  you  are 
feverish,  do  not  use  pepper,  mustard,  spice,  &c.,  in  your  food. 
Try  this  way  of  living  for  a  month ;  and  if  you  are  not  strongei, 
take  the  advice  of  a  regular  practitioner.     Never  take  Neigh- 
bours' Prescrif>tions. 

Reader !  Poor  Annie's  rules  wera  not  neighbours'  prescrip- 
tions ;  they  were  mostly  taken  from  a  work  recently  published 
by  an  undeniable  M.  D. 

After  Clara  had  in  some  measure  got  rid  of  her  grief,  she 
pat  about  getting  rid  of  her  consumption.  I  am  happy  to  say 
that  she  has  succeeded.  She  certainly  looks  much  heartier, 
and  I  think  she  will  be  a  robust  woman  yet.  I  do  not  think 
John  Brown's  little  new  house  will  want  a  mistress  long 
John  Brown  commenced  by  grieving  with  Clara,  continued 
by  loving  her  for  Annie's  sake,  and  ended  by  loving  her  for 
her  own  sake. 

But,  reader,  a  word  in  your  ear:  Mrs  Brown  is  at  large 
yet,  aud  busy  as  ever — so,  take  care 


ACROSS    THE    STREET, 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    STORY 


The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you. — JOHN  xii.  8. 

Ah !  little  think  the  gay  and  laughing  crowd 
Whom  pleasure,  power,  anl  affluence  surround, 
Ah  !  little  think  they,  as  they  dance  along, 
How  many  pine  in  want  or  drink  the  cup 
Of  misery !     Sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty ! — THOMSON. 

How  gay  seemed  the  city  on  New  Year's  Eve !  How  crowded 
the  markets,  and  how  crowded  the  shops ;  how  full  the  pan- 
tries, and  how  busy  the  kitchens !  Every  heart  seemed  full 
to  overflowing,  with  life,  and  hope,  and  hilarity — yet  no,  not 
every  heart.  Away,  in  obscure  streets,  in  filthy  alleys,  and  in 
dark  and  dismal  dwellings,  in  forgotten  neighbourhoods, 
cowered  and  shivered  many  a  cold  and  hungry  body,  to  whom 
Christmas  brought  no  joy,  but  rather  an  aggravation  of 
misery,  by  bringing  out  into  stronger  relief  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  comfortable  position  of  their  happier  neighbours, 
and  their  own  sordid  wretchedness. 

Such  a  contrast  might  be  seen  on street,  running  from 

the  avenue  south  down  to  the  canal.  There  stands  on  the 
eiist  .-ide  of  the  street  a  row  of  low-roofed  one-stnry  framed 

(805J 


COG  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

houses.  They  are  of  a  dirty  white  colour,  and  lean  forward 
as  if  about  to  fall.  They  each  have  one  door  and  window 
below,  and  two  little  square  windows  above,  facing  the  street; 
but  the  doors  are  off  the  hinges,  and  the  glass  broken  out  of 
the  windows,  and  its  place  filled  with  old  hats,  clothes,  &c. 
It  would  be  curious,  doubtless,  to  pry  into  the  history  cf  e-vh 
wretched  family  in  this  miserable  row. 

Doubtless,  drunkenness  has  had  much  to  do  with  it.  I 
think  so,  because  drunkenness  seems  to  be  the  only  vice  upon 
which  one  never  thrives.  But  that  corner  house  at  the  northern 
end  seems  almost  a  redeeming  feature  in  the  row.  For  see, 
the  door  has  two  hinges,  though  the  bottom  one  is  of  leather ; 
and  the  want  of  glass  is  supplied  with  clean  paper,  pasted  on. 
It  is  that  northeastern  corner  house,  in  that  front  room  so 
exposed  to  the  blast,  that  you  and  I  will  peep  to  see  what  the 
inmates  are  doing.  But  before  we  go  in,  just  look  across  the 
street,  and  see — there  is  but  one  house  on  the  whole  square, 
and  that  is  a  very  handsome  one  with  a  large  court-yard  on 
each  side  and  back  of  it.  Now  we  will  go  in  and  observe. 
The  room  is  very  bare,  floor  uncarpeted,  and  the  planks  full 
of  chinks,  through  which  the  wind  blows,  freezing  the  feet. 
That  searching  wind  !  it  comes  in  everywhere.  It  shakes  the 
unsheltered  north  end  of  the  house  (and  the  room),  and  it  rat- 
tles the  windows  on  the  west.  Whew,  this  cold  room  !  it  would 
take  so  much  fire  to  warm  it;  yet  there  is  not  a  spark  on  that 
cold  hearth.  True,  there  is  an  old  charcoal  furnace  in  the 
room,  containing  a  few  coals,  in  which  a  couple  of  flat-irons 
are  heating.  A  poor,  jaded,  sickly  woman  is  ironing  at  a 
table;  the  door  opens  now,  and  a  little  boy  enters  with  a  small 
basket  of  coal,  which  it  seems  he  has  picked  up  about  the 
streets. 

"  This  is  all  that  I  could  find,  mother." 

"Never  mind;  put  them  on,  Willie;  they  will  serve  to 
keep  the  irons  hot  till  I  finish  these  clothes,"  answered  the 
mother,  ar  the  boj  threw  a  basket  of  chips  on  the  fire.  "  And 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    STORY.  307 

then,  Willie,  you  and  I  will  go  and  carry  them  home ;  and  then, 
when  I  get  the  money — it's  a  dollar  and  a  'levenpence  that  Mrs. 
Pattoii  owes  me — we  will  go  through  market,  and  see  if  we 
can  find  a  nice  rabbit,  or  something  for  to-inorrow's  dinner; 
we  must  keep  Christmas,  Willie,  if  we  suffer  the  rest  of  the 
week,  for  it  was  the  day  our  dear  Saviour  was  born,  you  know, 
Willie." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Will  you  buy  some  molasses,  and  flour, 
and  ginger,  and  make  a  few  cakes  ?  And  oh,  mother,  will  you 
buy  some  peppermint  drops  for  poor  little  Lizzy,  poor  little 
thing ;  she's  got  no  father." 

"  Bring  me  an  iron,  Willie,  and  hush,"  said  the  woman,  as 
she  turned  away  and  rubbed  her  check  apron  across  her  eyes. 
"  You  bother  me.  My  gracious  alive,  child,  can't  you  see 
that  money's  hard  to  come  at  ?  One  must  stop  somewhere's ; 
it  won't  do  to  be  so  extravagant."  The  little  one  handed  the 
iron,  and  sighed  as  he  sat  down.  "  There,"  said  she,  "  mother's 
not  mad  with  you,  child,  poor  little  fellow !  but  she  is  not  able 
to  get-  so  many  things.  She's  got  wood  to  buy." 

"  I  can  fetch  chips." 

"  What,  with  snow  on  the  ground,  Willie  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot." 

"  Now,  then,  Willie,  wipe  your  nose  and  tie  your  shoes,  and 
get  ready  to  go  with  me.  Stay,  your  hat  won't  stay  together 
any  longer,  I  see.  Crawl  under  the  bed,  and  get  your  poor 
father's  fur  cap  out  of  the  box." 

"  Too  big." 

"  Never  mind,  it  will  come  down  over  your  ears,  and  keep 
the  back  of  your  neck  warm.  There  !  ain't  that  nice  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it's  as  warm  as  any  thing." 

Then  the  poor  woman  sat  down,  and  took  a  pair  of  thin 
slip-shod  shoes,  and  sewed  strings  to  the  back  to  keep  them 
up  at  the  heel,  and  brushed  and  straightened  her  crumpled 
bonnet,  put  on  her  shawl,  and  giving  one  basket  of  clothes  tc 
her  son,  an '  taking  another  herself,  went  into  the  street. 


SOS  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

After  trudging  through  the  snow  for  four  squares,  they  turned 
the  corner  and  came  upon  the  avenue.  How  lively  and  beau- 
tiful it  looked  !  The  western  sunlight  streamed  down  the  street, 
as  down  a  vista,  lighting  up  the  gay  windows  of  the  toy-shops 
and  the  confectioneries.  The  pavements  and  shops  were 
thronged  with  people,  making  purchases  for  New  Year's. 

"  Oh  !  mother,  look !  look !  Do  stop  and  look  at  this 
beautiful  window ;  such  beautiful  monkeys,  and  drums,  and 
guns,  and  great  dolls  and  things.  Oh !  mother,  how  much 
money  would  it  take  to  buy  that  dear  little  doll  for  baby  ?" 

The  child  pulled  his  mother's  hand  so  hard,  and  looked  so 
eager,  that  she  was  fain  to  stop;  and  she,  too,  became  inte- 
rested in  the  scene.  There  was  a  portly,  motherly-looking 
woman  coming  out  of  the  shop,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm, 
followed  by  a  gaug  of  children,  their  hands  full  of  gingerbread^ 
nuts,  &c. ;  and  peeping  out  from  under  the  basket-cover  were 
to  be  seen  the  feet  of  dolls,  ends  of  drums,  &c.  This  womau 
was  good-natured,  and  smiled  on  the  child  as  she  passed. 

"There,  mother,  that  woman  has  bought  ever  so  many 
things  for  her  children.  Why  can't  you  buy  something  for 
me  and  baby  ?" 

"  I  keep  telling  you,  Willie,  that  I'm  poor,  very  poor,  and 
not  able,  and  you  keep  forgetting.  Willie,  I've  got  something 
to  show  you  now."  And  she  took  him  half  a  square  on,  whero 
a  milliner's  and  a  dry  goods  merchant's  shops  were  side  by 
side.  "  There,  Willie,  ain't  they  nice  bonnets  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  mother." 

"  And  ain't  that  a  nice  warm  shawl  ?" 

"'Taint  nothing  else  !" 

"Don't  say  that,  Willie;  it's  wicked,  that  is;  not  wicked, 
but  not  (jenteel.  Well,  then,  you  see  that  nice  bonnet  and 
shawl;  now  look  at  mother's.  Isn't  it  thin,  and  isn't  her 
bonnet  old  and  ugly  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Well,  T  tell  you,  Willie,  that  mother  looks  with  as  much 


A    NEW    YEAR'S   STORY  309 

longing  on  this  window,  as  you  looked  Dn  that.  So  you  are 
not  the  only  one.  Mother  wants  things  she  can't  get  as  well 
as  you  do." 

"  Well,  mother,  don't  fret ;  when  I  get  to  be  a  man,  I'll 
work  hard,  and  give  you  all  the  money,  and  only  keep  a  half- 
dollar  myself  to  show  to  the  boys." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  poor  dear  child.  1  know  you  will  be 
n  blessing  to  me.  Yes,  Willie,  mother  will  try  this  evening 
to  get  you  something  pretty,  that  she  will ;  because  you've 
been  a  good  boy,  and  will  be  a  blessing  to  me." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  will ;  and  not  go  away  and  leave  you, 
like  my  father !" 

"  You  bad  boy  !  Oh,  that  is  very  wicked.  Who  put  that 
into  your  head  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Ryley  told  me." 

"  Told  you  what  ?" 

"  Told  me  how  I  was  the  image  of  my  father,  but  hoped  I 
wouldn't  be  such  a  good-for" 

"  There,  hush  !  You  mustn't  say  such  things.  It's  very 
wicked.  Your  poor,  dear  father,  too,  who  was  killed  in 
Mexico,  defending  his  country." 

They  crossed  the  busy  avenue  now,  and  turned  down  D 
street,  where  they  went  in  at  the  side  gate  of  a  comfortable- 
looking  framed  house,  the  residence  of  a  substantial  mechanic, 
for  whose  family  Mrs.  Jones  washed.  They  knocked  at  the 
back  door,  and  were  admitted  into  a  large,  well-warmed 
kitchen.  Yes,  it  was  so,  so  comfortable.  There  stood  the 
large  Union  cooking-stove,  glowing  and  roaring  with  fire ;  and 
there  stood  a  great,  fat,  greasy-looking  coloured  woman,  in  the 
act  of  taking  a  pan  of  cakes  from  the  oven ;  and  all  along  upon 
the  lower  dressers  were  ranged  mince  pies,  waiting  to  bo  put 
away ;  and  before  a  table  stood  the  mistress  of  the  house,  with 
her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her  elbows,  cutting  out  cakes;  ind 
at  the  end  of  the  table  stood  her  daughter,  beating  up  eggs. 
She  turned  as  Mrs.  Jones  came  in,  and  said : 


S10  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

t(  Oh,  have  you  brought  the  things,  Sally  ?  Here,  Rebecca, 
you  take  them.  Are  they  well  aired  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  I  was  short  of  wood." 

"  You  ought  always  to  bring  them  home  well  aired  !  Well, 
Jlebccca,  hang  them  to  the  fire  up  stairs  in  my  room.  Won't 
you  go  to  the  stove  and  warm  yourself?" 

Mrs.  Jones  led  her  son  to  the  stove,  and  stood  waiting,  to 
see  if  her  employer  would  offer  her  payment. 

"  Take  a  chair,"  said  the  coloured  woman,  setting  one. 

She  took  it,  and  there  they  sat,  the  mother  and  son,  who 
Lad  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast ;  there  they  sat,  inhaling  the 
provoking  savour  of  freshly-baked  mince  pies  and  cakes.  And 
as  the  coloured  woman  wiped  cake  after  cake  with  a  clean 
napkin,  and  laid  them  one  by  one  in  a  basket,  the  hungry 
child  followed  her  eagerly  with  his  eyes,  until  his  mother 
twitched  his  arm  and  rose  to  depart,  for  the  sun  was  getting 
low.  She  went  to  the  table  where  the  "  lady"  was  busy,  and 
said,  modestly,  "  You  know  how  much  that  little  bill  of  mine 
h  now,  ma'am." 

"Yes;  seventy-five  cents." 

"  No,  ma'am ;  if  you  please  to  count  up  you  will  see." 

This  was  an  expensive  time  with  Mrs.  Patton;  so  she  must 
tcrew  for  the  thirty-seven  cents  difference. 

Here  followed  an  altercation,  in  which,  as  usual,  the  weaker 
party  had  to  yield ;  and  Mrs.  Jones  finally  said : 

"  Well,  ma'am,  let  it  be  seventy-five  cents ;  and  if  you  could 
make  change,  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  to  let  me 
have  it  now." 

"  I  always  pay  all  my  bills  the  third  of  the  month,  when 
Patton  gets  paid  off.  Come  the  third  of  January ;  I'll  pay 
you  then." 

"  Yes,  madam,  but  I'm  very  much  in  want  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  it,  I  tell  you.  It's  good,  you  know 
Come  next  week." 

"  But  indeed  I  am  very  much" 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    STORY  31! 

"  Dear  me  !  Was  ever  any  one  so  worried  ?  I  tell  jou  my 
money's  yood  ;  and  I  really  can't  pay  you  till  next  week." 

"  Come,  Willie,  we  must  go  home." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Willie,"  said  the  mother,  as  she  left  the 
house,  "  what  shall  we  do  now  ?  It's  night,  almost,  and  cloud- 
ing up  as  if  there  was  going  to  be  more  snow,  and  we  with 
not  even  a  chip  to  light  a  fire  with  when  we  get  back." 

"  Oh,  mother,  the  smell  of  the  nice  cakes  has  made  me  so 
hungry.  Let's  go  through  market,  any  how,  mother;  I  want 
to  buy  three  cakes  for  us  and  baby." 

"What  with,  Willie?" 

"  Oh,  with  my  cent  the  coloured  woman  gave  me.  I  know 
she  <f  given  me  a  cake  if  they'd  been  hers." 

So  they  went  into  market,  poor  things,  strangely  but  natu- 
rally impelled  to  aggravate  their  sense  of  privation  by  looking 
on  the  good  things  that  they  couldn't  buy.  Some  of  my 
readers  know  what  the  market  on  Christmas  eve  at  night  is, 
with  the  stalls  all  lighted  up,  and  the  light  shining  down  on 
abundance  of  all  sorts  of  good  things. 

"  Oh,  mother,  ain't  here  a  siyht  of  meat  ?"  said  Willie,  as 
they  walked  between  the  butchers'  heaped-up  stalls. 

The  widow  sighed  a  reply. 

How  lost  they  seemed  in  that  jolly  scene  !  Every  one  was 
buying  and  selling,  bargaining,  laughing,  and  chatting.  The 
spirit  of  frugality  seemed  banished  from  the  market  that  night, 
and  money,  the  vital  fluid  of  the  world,  flowed  as  briskly 
through  the  market,  as  blood  through  a  young  man's  veins. 

Willie  bought  with  his  cent  three  very  small  cakes ;  "  one 
for  mother,  and  one  for  me,  and  one  for  baby,"  he  said ;  and 
then  they  went  home,  not  starving  and  freezing  exactly,  but 
with  an  appetite  whetted  to  the  keenest  edge  by  the  fresh  and 
frosty  air.  Oh,  reader,  would  it  not  have  been  comfortable 
fur  them,  if  they  could  have  gone  home  with  a  full  bas- 
ket to  a  warm  room,  a  glowing  fire,  and  a  good  supper  f 
It  was  snowing  very  fast  now,  and  the  wind  was  driving 
19 


B12  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

it  fiercely  in  their  faces.  The  flakes  of  snow,  sharp  with 
frost,  seemed  to  cut  into  the  pores  of  their  skin,  and  find 
its  way  over  the  folds  of  their  clothes,  wetting  them  through, 
and  over  the  tops  of  their  old  shoes,  soaking  their  feet. 
The  poor  woman  struggled  on  through  the  driving  ami 
whirling  snow-storm,  holding  on  her  bonnet  with  one  hand, 
and  dragging  Willie  with  the  other.  Oh,  reader,  if  you 
had  known  this,  would  you  not  have  hastened  to  kindle  a  fire 
on  that  cold  hearth,  and  spread  with  food  that  bare  board? 
Oh  !  if  you  would,  it  is  not  too  late  yet.  "The  poor  shall 
never  cease  from  the  earth."  And  just  over  the  way,  per- 
chance, or  around  the  corner,  in  the  next  street  or  alley  may, 
nay,  must,  be  suffering  equal  or  greater  than  I  here  depict. 
Dear  reader,  the  poor  in  thine  own  immediate  neighbourhood 
are  thy  poor — the  legacy  of  Christ  to  thee.  "  The  poor  ye 
have  always  with  you."  And  if  Providence  has,  as  it  were, 
dropped  them  immediately  in  your  way,  for  the  purpose,  it 
may  be,  of  eliciting  from  you  a  spirit  of  Christian  love,  do  not 
shut  your  eyes,  and  close  your  heart,  and  pass  them  by.  Do 
not  try  to  shift  the  responsibility  on  to  public  charities ;  they 
can  do  but  little.  Do  not  withhold  from  "  thy  poor"  the  food 
and  raiment  for  which  they  are  suffering — the  work  with  which 
they  might  supply  their  own  wants — the  advice  and  the 
sympathy  that  would  encourage  them  to  effort. 

The  mother  and  son  reached  home.  The  snow  was  banked 
up  against  the  door.  They  pushed  the  door  open,  and  the 
snow  fell  in  upon  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  dear,  mother,  I  believe  my  sock  is  frozen  to  the  bot- 
tom of  my  foot  j  I  can't  get  it  off,"  cried  the  child,  as  he  tried 
to  divest  his  feet  of  their  cold,  wet  covering;  and  so  it  was. 

<'  Stop,  Willie,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  must  put  your  feet  in 
cold  water,  or  else  they'll  be  frost  bitten ;"  but  when  she  went 
to  the  bucket,  the  water  was  frozen.  At  this  moment,  too, 
the  baby  awoke,  and  began  to  cry  piteously. 

"  Here,  mother,  give  babe  this  cake ;  never  mind,  mother, 
1  can  get  my  stockings  off  now.  I  held  my  warm  hands  to 


ANEWTEAB8      STORY.  ^13 

;  my  hands  were  warm,  because  I  kept   them  in  my 
pockets." 

'    His  mother  handed  him  a  pair  of  dry  socks  out  of  "  the 
box  under  the  bed." 

"  Mother,  what  have  we  got  for  supper,  anyhow  ?" 
"  Hurrah  !  for  New  Year's  I"  shouted  a  voice  in  the  street 
The  woman  went  to  a  basket  in  the  corner,  and  looked  into 
it,  saying,  "  We  have  got  about  a  dozen  potatoes,  Willie,  if 
we  only  had  a  little  fire  to  boil  them  with;  but,  dear  me,  they 
are  all  frozen  hard — frozen  hard,  like  my  heart;  for  now, 
though  I  see  my  poor  things  suffering,  I  cannot  even  have  a 
good  cry ;"  and  in  proof  thereof  the  poor  woman  burst  into 
a  copious  flood  of  tears.  Willie  ran  and  twined  his  greasy 
jacket-sleeves  around  her  neck  :  "Dou't  cry,  mother;  there, 
don't  cry;  indeed  I'll  be  good,  and  not  ask  for  supper;"  which 
only  made  "  mother"  cry  the  more. 

"  What  is  the  bustle,  then,  mother  ?  Has  our  Father  iu 
Heaven  gone  and  left  us  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Willie ;  what  makes  you  ask  such  a  question  ?" 
"  Why,  when  father  left  us,  and  you  were  sick,  and  baby 
came,  you  said  how  we  had  a  Father  in  Heaven,  who  would 
'  never  leave'  us,  '  or  forsake  us ;'  and   you  used   to  repeat 
texts  about  him — I  remember  them  yet." 

The  mother  drew  her  arm  around  his  waist  and  kissed  him, 
as  she  said — 

"Repeat  them  to  me,  Willie;  they  will  comfort  me." 
"  '  Cast  all  your  care  upon  Him,  for  He  careth  for  you.' " 
"  Yes,  I  will.     Go  on." 

" '  Do  not  two  sparrows  sell  for  a  farthing  ?  Verily  I  say 
unto  you,  not  one  of  them  shall  fall  to  the  ground  without 
your  Father.  Fear  not,  therefore ;  ye  are  of  more  value  than 
many  sparrows. 

'"Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air;  they  sow  not,  neither  dc 
they  reap,  nor  gather  into  barns,  yet  your  Heavenly  Fathci 
feedeth  them.  Are  ye  not  much  better  than  they  ? 


814  ACROSS     THE     STREET, 

" '  Therefore,  take  no  thought,  saying,  "What  shall  we  es\ 
or  what  shall  we  drink,  or  wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed, 
for  your  Heavenly  Father  Jcnoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  all 
these  things.  But  seek  first  the  Kingdom  of  God  and  His 
righteousness,  and  all  these  things  shall  be  added  to  you.' " 

"  Oh,  the  gracious  promises  !  Oh,  the  gracious  Father ! 
Kneel  down,  Willie,  and  place  your  little  hands  together,  and 
ask  our  Father  to  remember  us  in  our  need,  and  '  give  us  our 
daily  bread.' " 

And  the  little  child,  nothing  doubting,  raised  his  infant 
voice  and  pure  heart  in  supplication  to  his  Heavenly  Parent. 
And  when  at  last  he  arose,  and  met  his  mother's  eyes,  her 
tears  had  fled,  and  her  face  beamed  down  on  him  like  the  face 
of  an  angel. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are,  dear  mother — how  beautiful  you 
are  now.  You  look  just  as  you  used  to  look  when  father  came 
home  from  his  work,  and  you  took  the  baby  up  to  show  him." 

"  Woor-or-rah !  for  New  Year's!"  shouted  another  voice, 
rushing  past  the  house;  at  the  same  time  the  snaps  of  torpedos 
Sounded  on  the  side  walk,  and  Willie,  child-like,  ran  to  the 
window,  and  looked  out.  The  boys  with  their  rattle-traps  had 
gone  past. 

"  It's  done  snowing,  mother — that's  a  blessing,"  said  he ; 
and  then  the  house  across  the  street  fixed  his  attention. 

"  It's  four  o'clock,  mother ;  the  gentleman  has  come  home, 
and  he's  got  three  pair  of  little  shoes  dangling  on  his  arm : 
that's  for  Rose,  and  Ella,  and  Johnny,"  said  Willie,  as  a  thin, 
stooping,  yellow-visaged  man  bent  on  towards  the  house  and 
entered.  He  was  followed  by  a  boy  wheeling  a  hand-cart, 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  good  things.  He  could  afford  it.  He 
was  a  clerk  in  the  receipt  of  a  good  salary,  and  his  wife  and 
daughter  kept  a  select  first-class  day  school. 

The  evening  waned. 

"Our  Father  has  sent  us  nothing  yet,  mother,"  said  Willie 

1  My  dear  child — my  poor,  silly  child — listeo  !     God  doei 


A    NEW    TEAR'S    si  DRY.  315 

not  always  grant  our  prayers,  but  sometimes,  for  good  and 
wise  purposes,  withholds  compliance  with  them." 

"  But  our  Father  is  good — so  good,  and  I  asked  him  so 
faithful.  I'm  sure  something  will  turn  up,  mother." 

And  the  child  climbed  up  and  leaned  his  chin  upon  the 
back  of  a  chair  that  was  sitting  against  the  window,  and  gazed 
out ;  but  gusts  of  wind  rattled  the  glass,  and  a  driving  snow- 
storm darkened  the  air. 

Night  was  coming  on,  yet  still  the  child,  kneeling  upon  the 
chair,  clasping  its  back  with  his  little  hands,  and  pressing  his 
thin,  sharp  face  against  the  panes,  looked  out,  shivering,  when 
the  wind  rushed  against  and  through  the  crevices  of  the  old 
window. 

Night  was  coming  on,  and  the  handsome  house  across  the 
street  was  lighted  up.  The  blinds  were  not  yet  closed,  and 
the  light  glowed  through  the  crimson  curtains  upon  the  snow, 
making  the  street  rosy  red.  And  it  pleased  the  child's  little 
unselfish  heart  to  see  it,  and  to  think  how  light  and  warm  it 
must  be  in  that  room,  and  how  happy  the  children  there  must 
feel.  At  length  a  coloured  boy  came  out  and  closed  the 
blinds,  and  the  little  one  could  no  longer  see  the  light  from 
the  warm  room.  He  could  no  longer  see  anything  from  hig 
cold  postj  so  he  got  down,  and,  going  up  to  his  motherj 
said — 

"  Let  me  say  my  prayers  and  go  to  bed,  mother;"  and  aa 
he  drew  off  his  socks  he  said — 

"  It's  no  use  to  hang  up  my  stockings  to-niyht,  mother." 

About  the  same  hour  that  Willie  and  his  mother  went  to 
carry  home  the  washing,  within  that  comfortable  house  across 
the  street,  in  a  close  back  room  warmed  by  an  air-tight  stove, 
sat  a  pale,  dyspeptic,  anxious-looking  woman.  Upnn  the  bed, 
and  over  chairs,  lay  various  articles  of  unfinished  finery ;  ovci 
her  lap,  a  handsome  visite  upon  which  she  was  sewing  a  rich, 
heavy  fringe.  She  would  pause  occasionally  to  lean  her  head 
unon  her  hand,  or  place  her  hand  upon  her  side,  and  sigh  and 


fe!6  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

go  on  again.  A  ring  at  the  street  door  was  soon  followed  by 
the  entrance  of  a  lady  younger  than  the  worker,  who  came 
forward,  and  saluting  her  by  the  name  of  cousin,  remarked — 

"  I  left  a  woman  below  stairs,  who  came  in  with  me.  She 
wants  to  know  if  you  have  any  needlework  to  put  out  ?" 

"  Tell  her  no,  I  have  none.  Go  tell  her,  Ella."  (TLis 
Was  to  a  little  girl.) 

"  Yet  you  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  cousin." 

"  Yes  !  I  have,  and  I'm  almost  worn  out." 

"  Well,  then,  why  in  the  world  don't  you  put  some  of  it 
out?" 

"  Because  I'm  not  able,  Harriet." 

"  And  why  are  you  not  able  ?" 

"  Why,  because  our  income  is  very  moderate,  and  our  ex- 
penses are  heavy ;  house-rent  and  the  grocery  bill — and 
marketing  and  wood — keeping  three  fires — and  the  girls  must 
iress.  Yes  !  and  there  is  the  doctor's  and  the  druggist's  bill 
to  be  paid  soon — they  always  render  it  the  first  of  the  year. 
Now  I  beg  of  you  to  tell  me  how  I  can  put  out  my  sewing; 
and  tell  me  if  you  think  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  do  so  ?" 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  querulous  irony,  but  the  younger 
iidy  replied  good  humouredly — 

"  With  pleasure.  In  the  first  place  you  are  confined  to 
your  school-room  all  day  long  except  Saturday,  when  you  are 
going  through  the  house  setting  things  in  order — and  Sunday, 
when  you  go  to  church — is  it  not  so  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"Very  well.  That  leaves  you  only  evening  for  healthful 
relaxation,  su3h  as  visiting,  walking,  conversation,  light  read- 
ing, or  active  domestic  duties." 

"Yes." 

"  Tnen  a  good  portion  of  your  evening  should  be  given  up 
to.  such  healthful  relaxation.  Again,  you  are  well  paid  for 
teaching,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  I  am  paid." 


A     NEW     YEAR'S     STORY.  317 

"  Very  good.  Then  you  should  be  content,  and  not  covet- 
ous— giving  the  poor  needle-women  a  chance  to  live  also;  dis- 
pensing to  them  a  portion  of  your  work.  Now  this  is  my 
notion  of  the  division  of  labour.  Would  not  this  be  only 
just?" 

"  Ah  !  I  can't  afford  it." 

"  But  I  will  convince  you  that  you  can  afford  it.  You  aro 
subject  to  indigestion,  sick  headaches,  loss  of  appetite,  &c., 
and  you  have  to  take  pills,  and  sometimes  you  have  a  serious 
bilious  tttack,  and  have  to  call  in  a  physician,  at  a  dollar  a 
visit.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Yes,  oftentimes.  Now  I  am  going  to  assure  you  that,  if, 
when  you  come  out  of  school,  instead  of  sitting  down  at  your 
needlework  from  four  o'clock  to  eleven  or  twelve,  you  would 
only  take  a  walk  for  an  hour  or  two  every  evening,  your  health 
would  be  better,  and  you  would  save  more  dollars  in  physi- 
cian's visits.  Those  same  dollars  you  might  pay  to  some  poor 
woman  for  doing  that  portion  of  your  needlework  that  would 
have  been  done  in  the  hours  you  devoted  to  healthful  exercise." 

The  lady  smiled  ironically. 

"  That  is  a  narrow  view,"  she  said.  "  You  are  benefiting 
one  portion  of  the  community  at  the  expense  of  another." 

"  What,  the  doctors  !  Don't  you  believe  it.  Be  you  never 
so  careful  of  your  own  health,  there  are  fools  enough  in  the 
world  who  are  ruining  theirs  with  tight  lacing,  and  heavy 
clothing,  thin  shoes,  and  hot  stoves,  and  close  rooms,  and  other 
malpractices.  The  doctors  will  live.  But,  come,  will  you  njt 
now  put  out  a  portion  of  your  sewing  ?" 

"  I  can't,  I  tell  you !  The  girls  and  myself  must  dress 
goutcelly." 

"  Ah  !  there  it  is.  You  don't  mind  if  your  eyes  are  red, 
»nd  your  face  pale,  and  your  countenance  dejected,  so  that 
French  flowers  bloom  on  each  side  of  the  pale  cheek,  and  • 


818  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

costly  shawl  is  folded  over  the  weak  chest,  nor  how  ihe  poor 
body  inwardly  suffers  if  it  is  outwardly  adorned." 

"  But  these  things  should  be  bought  not  only  for  our  own 
gratification,  but  to  encourage  art  and  usefulness." 

'•'True;  but  people  in  moderate  circumstances  should  u=o 
them  in  moderation  j  and  you  should  allow  the  poor  work- 
woman an  opportunity  of  encouraging  manufactures  too, 
albeit  it  may  be  of  a  coarser  description,"  said  Miss  Harriet, 
smiling. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  go  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Brown ;  she  has 
nine  in  family  to  sew  for,  and  dresses  them  all  handsomely ; 
and  she  never  puts  out  a  bit  of  her  sewing,  though  her  hus- 
band gets  fifteen  hundred  a  year.  And  there's  Mrs.  Rice,  and 
Mrs.  Briggs,  and  Mrs.  Stone,  all  having  large  families,  all 
doing  their  own  sewing,  and  all  sickly,  although  their  hus- 
bands are  getting  good  salaries.  You  had  better  go  and  talk 
to  them." 

"  I  wish  sincerely  I  had  the  privilege,  for  I  believe  these 
ladies  act  from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  in  endeavouring  to 
make  a  little  money  go  as  far  as  possible.  They  believe  that 
they  are  doing  good  service  by  sitting  up  half  the  night  toil- 
ing to  economize  money,  that  they  may  spend  it  on  rich 
apparel.  With  eyes  intent  upon  one  point  of  economy,  they 
lose  sight  of  other  points,  and  often  realize  a  small  gain  at 
great  loss.  For  instance :  by  sewing  half  the  night,  they  can 
save  money  to  procure  fringe  of  a  little  greater  depth,  and 
richer  or  more  costly  feathers  and  flowers,  at  a  loss  of  health, 
cheerfulness,  and  beauty.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  men,  for 
I  believe  they  would  all  prefer  that  their  wives  and  daughters 
cared  more  for  their  health  and  beauty,  and  less  for  the 
finery. 

"  I  am  sure  that  our  women  do  not  want  benevolence  or 
good  sense,  but  they  want  time  and  opportunity  for  observing 
and  understanding  the  distress  that  is  caused  by  withholding 
their  work  from  the  poor.  I  wish  they  could  see  as  [,  who 


A    NEW    YEAR'S   STORY.  319 

UPC  among  them,  have  seen,  a  poor  widow  surrounded  by  her 
rhildren,  whom  she  is  obliged  to  keep  from  school  on  account 
of  their  destitution  of  shoes  and  clothes,  sitting  over  a  misera- 
ble fire,  or  partaking  of  a  wretched  meal — a  corn  griddle-cake 
broken  up  among  them — and  know  that  this  is  not  an  extra 
ordinary,  but  an  every  day  affair,  and  hear  her  say,  that  if 
she  could  but  get  sewing  enough,  she  would  do  so  well,  and 
hear  her  complain  that  the  '  ladies  do  all  their  own  work' 
now.  I  know  that  ladies  would  cheerfully  assist  her;  and 
when,  in  addition  to  all  her  other  misery,  she  is  laid  upon  a 
sick  bed — I  know  that  women  would  sacrifice  their  dearest 
piece  of  finery  to  relieve  her  wants." 

"  Oh !  dear,  you  are  drawing  a  fancy  picture ;   it  is  not  t 
so?" 

"  It  is  so,  very  close  to  my  own  home,  there  are  two  such 
cases  of  extreme  destitution,  for  the  want  of  work — come  and 
see  for  yourself.  And  how  many  more  in  other  parts  of  the 
city,  God  only  knows." 

The  lady  was  engaged  in  deep  thought  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  said : 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  arrangements  are  nearly  all 
complete  for  this  year,  but  next  year  I  will  adopt  a  different 
plan.  I  will  walk  out  with  you  after  school  hours  and  see, 
and  carry  some  of  my  needlework  to  one  of  these  poor  women 
you  speak  of." 

"No,  /will  take  care  of  my  two  families.  I  have  divided 
my  cwn  needlework  among  them,  and  shall  take  care  to  pro- 
cure from  our  own  neighbourhood  work  for  our  own  particular 
poor  first ;  then,  if  we  have  more,  we  will  give  it  to  others. 
Do  you  do  likewise — look  after  the  poor  of  your  oicn  immedi- 
ate neighbourhood.  To  wit :  there  is  a  row  of  houses  just 

across  the  street — visit  them ;  no  need  to  go  out  of  the 

ware1  " 

The  younger  lady  soon  after  took  her  leave,  and  the  eldei 
lady  exclaime'l.  as  the  street  door  closed  behind  her, 


520  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

"  Thank  God,  that  old  quidnunc  is  gone.  Heavens !  haven't 
I  been  worried  ?  Now  I'll  finish  the  visile." 

An  hour  after  tnis,  the  happy  family  group  were  assembled 
in  the  front  parlour.  The  father  had  come  home  from  maiket, 
and  the  mother  and  children  were  there,  gathered  around  tho 
glowing  grate,  telling  each  other  what  a  severe  change  there 
had  been  in  the  weather,  and  wondering  how  long  the  cold 
would  last,  and  how  deep  the  snow  would  be,  &c.  Ella,  the 
youngest  girl,  was  looking  out  upon  the  storm.  At  last  she 
turned  her  great  blue  eyes  around,  and  said, 

"  Mother,  I  don't  believe  there  has  been  a  spark  of  fire  in 
that  house  over  the  street  to-day ;  and  there's  a  little  boy  lives 
ther~e,  big  as  me,  and  he  has  not  got  any  brothers  and  sisters 
to  play  with,  neither." 

"  How  do  you  know,  Miss  Ella  ?"  inquired  her  mannish  little 
Brother,  joining  her. 

Ella  protruded  her  full  red  lips,  and  disdained  to  reply  to 
impertinent  questions. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  there  has  been  no  fire  there, 
Ella?"  inquired  her  father. 

"  Because,  father,  there  has  been  no  smoke  coming  out  of 
the  chimly  all  day." 

"<  Chimly'  now,  'chimly' — that's  a  pretty  way  to  talk!" 
interposed  Johnny. 

"  Yes,  it  is  !     Father,  make  Johnny  let  me  alone." 

"  Johnny  !  hush.     Do  you  know  who  lives  there,  Ella  ?" 

"  A  little  boy,  big  as  me ." 

"  Big  as  me — how  do  you  parse  that  ?"  said  Johnny,  s  >tto 
voce. 

"Father!" 

"  If  I  have  to  speak  to  you  again,  Master  Johnny,  I  shall 
Bend  you  off  to  bed." 

"  Well,  Ella  !  A  little  boy,  you  say,  and  who  else  ?" 

"  Why,  a  tortoise-shell  pussy  cat,  and  a  speckled  rooster, 
and  a  wman.  There  used  to  be  a  man  lived  there,  but  1 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    STORY.  321 

reckon  he's  gone  away.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  good  while. 
There's  tne  pussy  cat  now,  sitting  in  the  garret  window,  wash- 
ing her  face.  I  wonder  if  her  foot's  got  well;  she  useJ  to 
limp  when  she  walked." 

Mr.  Wood  was  now  looking  out  at  the  opposite  hoase.  An 
expression  of  pain  came  into  his  face,  and  he  said, 

"  My  dear  soul,  wife  !  I  do  believe  it  is  as  she  says.  Good 
Heavens !  to  think  of  being  without  a  fire  on  such  a  night  aa 
this !" 

"I  reckon  pussy's  foot  was  frost-bit.  Let  her  and  the 
little  boy  come  over  here  to  live,  Pa!  They  can  sit  by  our 
fire,"  interposed  Ella. 

"  Who  are  the  people,  wife ;  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't,  poor  creatures.  But  I'll  warrant  they 
ire  intemperate." 

"  No,  it  ain't,  mother,  it's  Link"  said  Ella. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Ella  ?" 

"  I  say  the  little  boy's  name  is  Willie  Link ;  Susan  says  so." 

"Wife,  we  must  see  if  they  are  in  want;  call  Susan  up." 

Susan  happened  to  know  the  circumstances  of  the  family, 
and  gave  every  needful  information. 

Sarah  Jones,  ten  years  before,  had  been  a  young,  healthy, 
happy  country  girl.  She  had  married  a  young  mechanic,  and 
removed  to  Washington.  For  a  few  years  they  lived  com- 
fortably, and  then  he  "  tooJc  to  drink,"  and  then  followed  the 
usual  train  of  circumstances — (he  funeral  train  of  happiness. 
Lower  and  lower,  year  by  year,  he  sank  into  intemperance  and 
brutality.  One  by  one  the  chjldren  that  had  been  born  to 
them  fell  victims  to  want  and  misery,  until  none  remained  but 
one  sickly  boy  and  a  young  babe.  At  last  the  war  with 
Mexico  broke  out,  and  Jones  enlisted,  and  that  was  the  last 
his  poor  wife  had  heard  of  him.  The  poor  woman  was  without 
a  trade  and  without  friends;  and  besides,  she  was  country 
bred,  bashful,  and  inexperienced,  and  so  could  do  little  for 
herself  a^d  children. 


322  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

"  What !  Jones  the  carpenter,  who  volunteered  ?  Why, 
wife,  I  owed  that  poor  fellow  a  small  balance  on  the  work  he 
did  here.  I  did  not  know  his  family  lived  so  near  us.  W« 
must  do  something  for  them  now,  and  I  will  pay  to-morrow." 

Accordingly  a  basket  was  procured,  which  Mrs.  Wood  filled 
with  a  paper  of  tea,  coffee,  and  sugar,  a  piece  of  cold  mutton, 
a  pie,  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  sent  it  over  by  Susan,  \\  ho 
was  accompanied  by  a  boy  with  a  wheelbarrow  of  wood. 
Johnny's  feelings  came  out  strong  under  the  circumstances. 
He  sent  "  his  all,"  a  fip  pound-cake  and  a  cent's  worth  of  fire- 
crackers. Ella  sent  a  doll,  with  its  head  broken  off.  All  Ella's 
effects  were  in  a  dilapidated  condition. 

It  was  dark  and  freezing  in  that  miserable  room  where  the 
poor  woman  was  undressing  her  hungry  boy. 

"  There,  Willie,  kiss  me  j  God  bless  you.  Go  to  bed  and 
sleep,  and  forget  that  you  are  hungry  !" 

Just  at  that  moment  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  The 
mother  and  child  trembled.  Who  could  be  coming  that  dark, 
cold  night? 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  mother,  faintly. 

And  the  latch  was  lifted,  and  a  sound  of  footsteps,  and  of 
something  set  heavily  down  upon  the  floor,  was  heard ;  a  luci- 
fer  match  was  scraped  on  the  wall,  and  a  light  was  struck  that 
revealed  the  scene.  There  stood  Susan  with  her  baskets. 

"  Mrs.  Wood  has  sent  you  some  things,  ma'am,"  said 
Susan,  showing  them.  "  Come  in,  Jim,  with  the  wood." 

The  boy  brought  an  armful  of  wood  in,  and  threw  it  on  the 
hearth,  while  Susan  lit  a  candle  and  handed  him  some  paper 
to  start  the  fire,  which  soon  blazed  up  the  chimney.  Then 
Susan  filled  the  kettle  and  hung  it  on,  and  pulled  out  the  table 
and  set  out  the  good  things  upon  it,  saying — 

"  You  must  excuse  me  for  taking  so  many  liberties,  Mrs. 
Jones,  as  JDU  are  poorly  and  tired." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  very  good — very  good  indeed — too  good.  1 
ihal)  never  be  able  to  repay  you,  or  Mrs  Wood  either." 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    STORY.  32a 

"Never  mind,  we  may,  any  of  us,  want  a  good  turn  some- 
time or  other,"  said  Susan,  making  the  tea ;  and  then  the 
good  girl  departed. 

What  a  magic  change  was  wrought  in  that  cold  room  j  how 
bright,  and  glowing,  and  genial,  the  fire  was — how  warm  to 
their  chilled  limbs;  and  fragrant  smelled  the  tea — the  rare 
luxury. 

" Oh!. mother,  we  are  glad!  ain't  we  glad — I  say,  mothe^ 
ain't  we  in  luck  ?" 

"Don't  say  that,  Willie.  Thank  our  Heavenly  Father, 
who  hath  given  us  meat  in  due  season." 

"  I  do  !  indeed  I  do  so.  Oh !  mother,  let's  wake  poor  baby 
up  to  give  her  some  tea.  She  was  so  hungry  that  little  cake 
wnrn't  nothing." 

"  Hunger  will  wake  her  soon,  poor  little  thing  !  Run  round 
to  Mrs.  Bayley's  and  get  a  cent's  worth  of  milk  against  she 
wakes." 

Willie  did  his  errand  in  a  twinkling,  and  then  returned. 
And  now,  dear  reader,  we  will  leave  Willie  and  his  mother, 
with  the  babe  in  her  arms,  sitting  down  to  the  supper,  before 
the  fire  that  their  kind  neighbour  had  provided,  and  follow 
Susan  "Across  the  Street." 

When  Susan  had  stamped  the  snow  off  her  feet,  and  pre- 
sented herself  in  the  parlour,  she  gave  such  an  account  of  the 
destitution  of  the  Jones's,  as  to  enlist  warmly  all  the  kindly 
feeling  of  the  Wood  family;  and  when  she  added,  "She  was 
the  same  woman,  ma'am,  who  begged  so  hard  for  work  the 
other  day,"  Mrs.  Wood  looked  up  from  her  sewing. 

"  And  you  refused  it  her,  when  you  had  so  much  on  hand  ! 
Oh,  wife !" 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was  so  destitute." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry.  How  many  turkeys  are  there  in  the  pin- 
try,  wife?" 

"  Three.  My  gracious  alive,  Mr.  Wood,  you're  not  dreau* 
ng  of  seudiHg  them  a  turkey  ?" 


824  ACROSS     THE     STREET; 

11  Why  not  ?  It's  a  luxury  they  might  have  once  a  year, 
poor  souls !  Send  them  the  small  one  ;  I  gave  but  fifty  centa 
for  it." 

"But  it's  extravagant;  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing/' 
remonstrated  the  housewife. 

But  the  children — children  are  always  benevolent  when 
there  is  no  self-denial  involved — took  part  with  their  father, 
and  implored  also  that  mother  would  put  in  the  basket  some 
jumbles  and  doughnuts  to  go  in  the  little  boy's  stocking. 
"And  tell  Mrs.  Jones  that  I'll  be  over  shortly,  and  see  about 
finding  regular  employment  for  her." 

The  next  morning  the  Woods  went  to  church,  and  returned 
to  meet  a  party  of  friends  at  dinner,  who  remained  all  the 
afternoon  and  half  the  night.  And  I  have  no  doubt  the 
family  enjoyed  their  New  Year's  dinner  and  friends  all  the 
more  keenly  for  the  consciousness  that  their  poor  neighbour 
across  the  street  was  comfortably  provided  for.  And  they, 
how  did  they  spend  their  New  Year's  ?  Why,  in  the  morning 
the  mother  arose  and  kindled  her  fire,  and  set  on  her  kettle, 
and  swept  up  the  room,  and  dressed  her  children  in  their  clean 
clothes,  and  laid  the  cloth  for  breakfast;  and  after  breakfast 
was  over,  she  put  her  little  turkey  in  the  oven  to  bake,  leaving 
Willie  to  mind  it,  and  went  to  church ;  also  then  returned, 
and  dined  upon  her  turkey,  and  spent  the  afternoon  in  telling 
stories  to  her  children,  watching  the  people  go  by,  and  particu- 
larly amusing  herself  with  noticing  the  company  go  in  and  out 
of  the  house  across  the  street. 

The  next  day  the  snow  was  gone,  and  the  winter  sun  shone 
out  brightly.  Just  as  the  poor  widow  had  finished  cleaning 
up  her  ho  ise,  and  was  getting  ready  to  do  some  washing  that 
had  been  sent  her,  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  W  :«od 
entered. 

"Take  a  seat,  madam,"  said  the  widow,  setting  a  chair. 

"  Thank  you.  You  called  at  my  house  last  week  to  go* 
tjcwing  to  do — did  you  not  ?" 


A   NEW   YEAR'S    STOBY.  325 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  I  had  none  ready  then.  I  have  brought  you  some  now, 
however.  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  it.  You  can  do  it  at  your 
leisure — when  you  have  no  other  work  for  other  people  on 
hand.  There  are  two  pair  of  pantaloons  and  two  jackets;  how 
uiuch  will  you  charge  ?" 

The  woman  looked  at  the  garments,  and  then  replied  : 

"  I  will  do  them  for  eighty-seven  and  a  half  cents ;  that  is, 
three  fips  a  piece  for  the  jackets,  and  a  quarter  a  pair  for  the 
trowsers." 

"  That  is  cheap,"  thought  the  lady.  "  It  would  take  me 
every  evening  for  a  fortnight  to  make  these  four  garments." 

"  As  it  is  so  cheap,  I  will  pay  you  now,"  said  the  lady, 
taking  out  a  purse.  She  first  thought  of  paying  the  woman 
a  round  dollar,  but  the  spirit  of  economy  prevailed — she  made 
the  precise  change. 

But  Mrs.  Wood  went  away,  determined  to  do  as  much  as 
she  could  for  the  poor  widow  without  injuring  her  own  family, 
should  an  opportunity  present  itself. 

Mr.  Wood  was  more  active  in  the  service  of  the  soldier's 
widow.  He  found  out  from  her  the  name  of  the  company  to 
which  her  husband  belonged,  the  date  of  his  enlistment,  &c., 
and  soon  discovered  the  fact  that  he  had  fallen  at  the  storming 
of  Monterey.  Long  inured  to  sorrow,  the  widow  received  the 
news  of  this  bereavement  very  calmly.  Mr.  Wood  interested 
himself  further  in  her  cause,  and  in  a  few  weeks  procured  her 
the  grant  of  a  land  warrant  and  pension.  The  land  warrant 
she  sold  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  with  this  small 
capital,  she  opened  a  little  thread  and  needle  store.  She  is 
now  doing  a  fair  business  in  a  small  shop.  But,  reader,  there 
are  many  others,  spread  all  over  our  city,  who  are  suffering 
for  work.  Let  them  have  it.  Our  city  owes  all  its  inhabitants 
a  living;  and  there  is  work  enough,  if  it  were  only  equally 
divided  and  well  remunerated,  to  supply  every  one  with  the 
necessaries  of  life. 


326  ACROSS     THE     STREET. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  inquired  a  lady  of  distinguished 
benevolence,  when  she  called  to  see  a  destitute  widow  with  a 
handful  of  children. 

"  Give  me  work,"  was  the  literal  answer  of  the  poor,  but 
high-principled  woman.  Give  the  poor  work,  that  they  may 
not  D  ied  alms  1 


A  SWEEPING  REDUCTION! 

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$1.50  a  Copy,  including  all  the  Works  of 

Mrs.  Southworth,  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens, 
Mrs.  Hentz,  Mrs.  War  field, 

Miss  Dupuy,          Dumas,  etc.,  etc., 

As  well  as  other  Books  formerly  published 
by  us  at  $1.75  each. 


CATALOGUE  OF  BOOKS 

PUBLISHED  BY 

T,  B,  PETERSON  AND  BROTHERS, 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
And  for  stale  by  all  Booksellers. 


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wanted  to  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


f,  B.  PETERSON  AND  BROTHERS, 

3O6  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 

Desire  to  direct  the  close  attention  of  all  lovers  of  good  novel  readir<j  to  th« 
WC-rlts  and  authors  contained  in  their  new  catalogue,  just  issued.  A  strict  s<  ruiir.y  is 
•elicited,  because  the  books  enumerated  in  it  are  among  the  most  popular  now 

tin  existence.  In  supplying  your  wants  and  taste  in  the  reading  line,  it  is  of  the  first 
importance  that  you  should  give  special  attention  to  what  is  popularly  designated  en- 
tertaining reading  matter.  No  library  is  either  attractive  or  complete  without  a  col- 
".  tion  of  novels  and  romances.  The  experience  of  many  y._ars  has  demonstratrd 
Jhat  light  reading  is  essential  to  even  the  most  studious  men  and  women,  furnishing 
tke  mind  with  healthful  recreation  ;  while  to  the  young,  and  to  those  that  have  not 
activated  a  taste  for  solid  works  of  science,  it  forms  one  of  the  best  possible  training 
(Chools,  gradually  establishing,  in  a  pleasant  manner,  that  habit  of  con  entration  of 
thought  absolutely  necessary  to  read  understar.dingly  the  more  ponderous,  works, 
Which  treat  of  political  economy,  the  sciences,  and  of  the  arts. 

We  publish  and  sell  at  very  low  rates,  full  and  varied  editions  of  the  works  c4 
ell  the  famous  American  and  Foreign  Novelists,  whose  writings  a/e  very  entertain, 
ing,  specially  adapted  for  all  readers.  The  most  of  them  are  bound  in  strong  cloth 
tinding,  and  also  in  paper  covers.  Examination  is  asl  ed  for  our  editions  of  th« 
writings  of  MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH,  whose  romances  r.re  always  i» 
lemand ;  MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS,  the  well-known  favorite;  MRS.  HENRY  \Vonn, 
ghe  authoress  of "  East  Lynne ;"  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HHNTZ,  whose  stories  of 
Southern  life  stand  unparall-led  in  their  simple  truth  and  exquisiu  beauty  :  MRS.  C. 
A.  WARFIELD  another  very  popular  Southern  writer;  Miss  ELIZA  A.  DIIPUY  who 
has  made  a  wonderful  mark;  MRS.  F.  H.  BURNETT,  the  authoress  of  "  Theo  ;  "  the 
charming  and  pathet'c  French  and  Russian  romances  of  HENRY  GREVILLE;  the 
woii-lerfuiandfa.uuus  SctioM  ofGt'srA\  E  FLAUBERT  ;  fh^  brilliant  and  artistic  works 
of  OCTAVE  FBI-ILI.KT  ;  the  highly  finished  an:!  powerful  storks  o<°  KKNEST  DM'OET  ; 
the  popular  and  pleasing  productions  of  FKOHHER  MIKIMEE;  the  beau.iful  and 
touching  love  tales  of  the  celebrated  GEORGE  S.\vi>  :  tho  clever  and  intensely  inter- 
esting writings  of  JULES  SANUEAU  ;  the  ex.  iting  ?i>d  ii'ueiiious  novels  of  AD»LPHC 
KEI.OT;  the  picturesque  and  enchaining  works  of  MIU\ME  ANC;ELE  DUSSAUO;  the 
exquisitely  pathetic  romances  of  the  PRINLUSS  ALVIEKI  .  the  strong  and  graphic 
productions  of  ANDRE  THEUMET  :  the  wild  frontier  sfcirlics  of  GUSTAVE  AIMARD; 
the  classic  and  refined  works  of  MADAME  \)F.  STAEL;  tiie  absorbing  and  vivid  fic- 
tions of  ALEXANDER  DUMAS.  Pere;  the  natural  and  forcible  novels  of  At  EXANDER 
DUMAS,  Fils  ;  the  startling  and  mysterious  romances  of  EUGENE  SbE  ;  the  trenchant 
an  1  unique  nnrrai.ves  of  VICTOR  HUGO,  the  realistic  noveU  or"  EMILB  ZJLA,  which 
have  had  a  sale  in  this  country  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  recent  book-making; 
»f  great  interest  is  SIR  WAI.TISR  SCOTT,  whose  "  Waverley  "  novels  still  maintain 
«  *trong  hoM  on  the  people.  CHARLES  DICKENS'  complete  writings  we  furnish  in 
every  variety  of  style.  W»  publish  also  the  wdrd  stories  of  GI:OI«;F  I.II-PARD  ;  th« 
martial  novels  of  CHARLES  LEVEP  ;  the  comical  nanticil  tales  ofCAt-i  AIN  MARUVAT- 
LMEKSON  BBNNK-IT'S  Indian  stories:  HENKY  COCKTON'S  laughai-le  narrative  •  T." 
S.  ARTHUR'S  temperance  tales  and  household  stories-  the  wondertul  and  ent  m.-r.- 
ing  novels  of  EUGENE  SUE  and  W.  H.  AINSWOKTH  ;  the  quiet  domestic  novels  of 
FREDRIKA  BREMKR  and  ELLEN  PICKERING  ;  the  masterly  novels  of  WILKIE  COL- 

manc'es  ;  the  works  of  MRS.  C.'j.  NEWBY.'  MRS.  'GREY,  and  M'ISS" PARDOE  T'w.  JL 
HERBERTS  sporting  stories;  and  the  graphic  haiian  romances  of  T.  A.  TROU.DPE; 
also  the  fascinating  writings  of  G.  P.  K  J'.M-::;,  MKS.  S.  A.  DOKSEY,  SIK  EUWARD 
EULWER  LYTTON,  JAMES  A.  MAITLAND.  THE  SHAKSPEARK  NOVELS,  CHARLES  G. 
LELAND  (Hans  Breiimann),  Dow's  Patent  Sermons,  DOESTICKS,  and  HtNRt 
MoRpr>RD>as  well  as  FRANCATELLI'S,  Miss  LESLIE'S, and  all  the  best  Cook  Book;; 
Peters  -ns'  "Dollar  Series  of  Good  Novels;"  Petersons'  "Sterling  Series"  of 
entertaining  books  ;  Petersons'  popular  "  Square  izmo.  Series  "  of  excellent  stories} 
|»gether  with  hundreds  of  others,  by  the  best  authors  in  the  world. 

#3=- Look  over  our  Catalogue,  and  enclose  a  Draft  or  Post  Office  Order  for  five. 
ten,  twenty,  or  fifty  dollars,  or  more,  to  us  in  a  later,  and  write  fot  what  boolcl 
you  wish,  and  on  receipt  of  the  money,  or  a  satisfactory  reference,  the  books  will 
ke  packed  and  sent  to  you  at  once,  in  any  way  you  may  direct  Address  all  orders  t« 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia.  P*t 


B.  PETERSON  *«,  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


Orders  solicited  from  Booksellers,  Librarians,  Canvassers,  tows 
Agents,  and  all   others  in  want  of  good  and   fast-selliug 
books,  which  will  be  supplied  at  very  Low  Bates  <£$i 


g  Self-Made;  or,  Out  of  Depths....  $1   5* 


MRS   E.  D  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH'S  FAMOUS  WORKS 

tomplete  in  forty-three,  larje  dunf!ecimo  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  yilt  book 

price  $1.50  each;  or  $64.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 
Ishmael ;  or,  In  the  depths,  bei 
Self  Raised;  or,  From  the  Depth 

The  Mother-in- Law $ 

The  Fatal  Secret, 

How  He  Won  Her 

Fair  Play 

The  Spectre  Lover, 

Victor's  Triujaph, 

A  Beautiful  Fiend, 

The  Artist's  Love, 

A  Noble  Lord, 

Lost  Heir  of  Linlithgow, 

Tried  for  her  Life, 

Cruel  as  the  Grave, 

The  Maiden  Widow, 

The  Family  Doom, 

Tho  Bride's  Fate, 

The  0*11:11  s;ed  Brides, 

Fallen  Pride, 

The  Widow's  Son 


Sequel  to  "  Ishinael." 

50 1  The  Deserted  Wife, 

50!  The  Fortune  Seeker, 

50   The  Bridal  Eve, 

50   The  Lost  Heiress, 

50,  The  Two  Sisters, 

50   Lady  of  the  Isle, 

50   Prince  of  Darkness, 

50   The  Three  Beauties, 

50    Vivia;  or  the  Secret  of  Power, 

50  !  Love's  Labor  Won, 

50  j  The  Gipsy's  Prophecy, 

50  i  Retribution, 

50  I  The  Christmas  Guest 

50   Haunted  Homestead, 

50  i  Wife's  Victory, 

W)  I  All  worth  Abbey, 

50   India ;   Pearl  of  Pearl  lliver,.. 

50  ,  Curse  of  Clifton, 

50   Discarded  Daughter 

50  1  The  Mystery  of  Dark  Hollow,.. 


The  Bride  of  Llewellyn, 

The  Fatal  Marriage, 

The  Missing  Bride;  or,  Miriam,  the  Avenger, 

The  Phantom  Wedding;  or,  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Flint, 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
B«lf-Made;  or,  Out  of  the  Depths.     By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southwortk, 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  cloth,  price  $1.50  each,  or  $3.00  a  set. 

CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  EXQUISITE  BOOKS. 

Csntflete   in  twelve  large  dumhcimn  volumes,  bound  in  itorocco  cloth,  yilt  bmcL 
price  $1.50  each;  or  $18.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  uj'in  a  neat  box. 


SrnostLinwood, $1   50    Love  after  Marriage 


The  Planter's  Northern  Bride,..  1  50 

Courtship  and  Marriage 1  50 

Rena;  or.  the  Snow  Bird, 1  50 


Eoline;  or  Magnolia  Vale, 

The  Lost  Daughter, 
The  Banished  Son, 
Helen  and  Arthur,, 


..$!  *f 


lfar.3us  Warland 1  50 

Linda;  or,  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole, 

Robert  Graham  ;  the  Sequel  to  "  Linda;  or  Pilot  of  Belle  Creole," 
Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 


19"Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  «f  Retail  PriM) 
by  1.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia.  Pa.         G) 


t   T.  B  PETERSOH  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS 


MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS'  FAVORITE  NOVELS. 

Complete  in  twenty-three  large  dunilecimn  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  bmdk 
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M 

50 
50 
50 
50 

A  Noble  Woman,  '.  

oO 

50 
50 
50 
50 
50 
5« 
5t 
*• 

Bellehood  and  Bondage,  
The  Old  Countess,  

Silent  Struggles,  
The  Rejected  Wife,  

The  Reigning  Belle,  

Mary  Derwent,  

Married  in  Ilnste,  

50 
50 

ft!) 

The  Curse  of  Gold 

Wives  and  Widows,  
Rubv  Grav's  Stratezv  

Mabel's  Mistake,  
The  Old  Homestead  

Doubly  False,. 1  50  |  The  H  iress, 1  50  |  The  Gold  Brick,...  1 


Above  are  each  bound 


i  fourteen  large  duodecimo 
$1.50  eacA;  or  $21.00  a 
A  New  Way  to  Win  a  Fortune  $ 

The  Discarded  Wife, 

The  Clandestine  Marriage, 

The  Hidden  Sin, 

The  Dethroned  Heiress, 

The  Gipsy's  Warning, 

All  Por  Love, 


morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 


MISS  ELIZA  A.  DUPUY'S  WONDERFUL  BOOKS. 


volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back,  price 
•et,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

50  i  Why  Did  He  Marry  Her  ? $1  50 

50    Who  Shall  be  Victor? 

50    The  Mysterious  Guest, 

Was  He  Guilty? 

The  Cancelled  Will, 


(TV  I    A  110      VllilUCllCU      If   111, 

50    The  Planter's  Daughter, 

50  I  Michael  Rudolph, 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

LIST  OF  fHE  BEST  COOK  BOOKS  PUBLISHED. 

Beery  housekeeper  should  possess  at  least  one  of  the  following  Cook  Books,  at  they 

would  save  the  price  of  it  in  a  week's  cooking. 
Kiss  Leslie's  Cook  Book,  a  Complete  Manual  to  Domestic  Cookery 

in  all  its  Branches.     Paper  cover,  $1.00,  or  bound  in  cloth, $1  59 

The  Queen  of  the  Kitchen ;    or,  The  Southern  Cook  Book.     Con- 
taining 1007  Old  Southern  Family  Receipts  for  Cooking,. ..Cloth,  51 

Mrs.  Kale's  New  Cook  Book Cloth,  6« 

Petersons'  New  Cook  Book, Cloth,  6* 

Widdifield's  New  Cook  Book, Cloth.  50 

Mr«.  Goodfellow's  Cookery  as  it  Should  Be, Cloth,  50 

The  National  Cook  Book.     By  a  Practical  Hous-wii'e,.  Cloth,  30 

Ths  Young  Wife's  Cook  Book, Cloth,  5J 

Ifici  Leslie's  New  Receipts  for  Cooking, .' Cloth,  M 

Mrs.  Hole's  Receipts  for  the  Million, Cloth,  5i 

The  Family  Save-All.    By  author  cr  "Rational  Cook  Book,"  Cloth,  60 
f  rancatelli's  Modern  Cook  Book.     With  the  most  approved  methods 
-     of  French,  English,  German,  and  Italian  Cookery.     With  Sixty- 

two  Illustrations.     One  vol.,  600  pages,  bound  in  inerocco  cloth,  ft  0* 


ffT Abort  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Betail  Pri«* 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia.  Pa. 


1  1  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.   I 
MRS.  C.  A.  WARFIELD'S  POPULAR  WORKS. 

Complete  in  ninr.  l*+rge  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back,  priet 
$1.50  each ;  or  $13.60  a  ttt,  each  set  it  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

The  Cardinal's  Daughter, $1  50  Mirinm's  Memoirs, $1  50 

Feme  Fleming, I  50  Monfort  Hall, ~  1  60 

Ihe  Household  of  Bouverie,....  1  50  Sea  and  Shore, 1  M 

*  Double  Wedding, 1  50  Hester  Howard's  Temptation,...  1  40 

Lady  Ernestine;  or,  The  Absent  Lord  of  Rocheforte, 1  M 

Ab  jv$  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

FREDRIKA  BREMER'S  DOMESTIC  NOVELS. 

Ctmplete  in  tix  larg;  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.50«w*j 
or  |9.00  a  set,  each  set  it  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

Father  and  Daughter, $1  50  I  The  Neighbors, $1  58 

The  Four  Sister*, 1  50  I  The  Home 1  61 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
Life  in  the  Old  World.     In  two  volumes,  cioth,  price, 3  0* 

a  K.  PHILANDER  DOESTICKS'  FUNNY  BOOKS. 

Qimplrte  in  four  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  (lilt  back,  price  tl.bft 
each  ;  or  $6.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neai  fax. 

Do-sticks'  Letters $1   501  The  Elephant  Club, $1  50 

Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah, 1  50  |  Witches  of  New  York I  60 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

JAMES  A.  MAITLAND'S  HOUSEHOLD  STORIES. 

Complete  in  seven  large  duodecimo    volume,  bound  in  clnth.   gilt  l>ack,  price  $1  SO 
each  ;  or  $10.50  a  set,  each  set  it  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

T'-e  Watchman $1  50  I  Diarj  af  an  Old  Doctor, $1   59 

Tue  Wanderer, I  50    Sartarce I   M 

The  Lawyer's  §tory 1   50  I  The  Three  Cousins ~.  1  61 

TUB  Old  Patroon  ;  or  the  Great  Van  Broek  Property, I   i4 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

T.  ADOLPHUS  TROLLOPE'S  ITALIAN  NOVELS 

C*n*-let'.  in  seven  large   ifundecimo  volume*,  bound  in  c'oth,  gilt  hack,  pnct  Sl.M 
each ;  or  $10.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  wit  box. 

The  Sealed  Packet, $1  50  i  Dream  NumUr-?, $1   6* 

3»retang  Grange, 1  50  !  Beppo,  the  Cons.i  ipt, 1  M 

Uonora  Casaloni,...  1  50  j  Gemma 1  50  |  Maiv>tra 1   60 

Above  are  each  bound  in  mon.cco  cloth,  price  tfi.oO  each. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  SPORTING  SCENES. 

Frank  Forester's  Sporting  Scenes  and  Characters.  By  Henry  Willi»n> 
Herbert.  A  New,  Revised,  and  Enlarged  Edition,  with  a  Life  of  the 
Author,  a  New  Introductory  Chapter,  Frank  Forester's  Portrait  »n4 
Autograph,  with  a  full  length  picture  of  him  in  his  sh»"ting  costume, 
Ind  seventeen  other  illustrations,  from  original  designs  by  Darlcy  ai:4 
Frank  Forever.  Two  vols.,  morocco  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  $4.00. 


Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Pna» 
by  I.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers.  Philadelphia.  P*. 


I    I.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS5  PUBLICATIONS. 
WILKIE  COLLINS'  BEST  BOOKS. 

Ba»il;  or,  The  Crossed  Patn..$l  50  |  The  Dead  Secret.     12mo $1  51 

Above  are  each  in  one  large  duodecimo  volume,  bound  in  cloth. 

The  Bend  Secret,  8vo 75    The  Queen's  Revenge...... 75 

Basil;  or,  the  Crossed  Path, 75    Miss  or  Mrs? .........  60 

Hide  and  Seek, 75    Mad  Monkton, 50 

After  Dark, 75    Sights  a-Foot,.. ,.  5C 

The  Stolen  Mask, 25  |  The  Yellow  Mask,...  25  |  Sister  Rose,  ..  24 

The  above  books  are  each  issued  in  paper  cover,  in  octavo  form. 

EMERSON  BENNETT'S  INDIAN  STORIES. 

in  seven    large  rfuorfecvwto  votumrs,  bnmd  in  rlo'f>,  gilt  back,  price  $1.0C 
each ;  or  $10.50  a  set,  each  set  is  pint  up  in  rt  neat  box. 


The  Border  Rover, $1  50 


Bride  of  the  Wilderness,  ........  $1  5« 


Ellen  Norhury,  ....................   I  50 

K:ite  Clarendon,  ...................   I  50 


Clara  Moreland, 1  50 

The  Orphan's  Trials I  50 

Vlolft;  or  Adventures  in  the  Far  South-West, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each, 
the  Heiress  of  Bellefonte, 75  |  The  Pioneer's  Daughter, 75 

GREEN'S  WORKS  ON  GAMBLING. 

Complete  in  f<n*r  large  dundecimn   volumrx,  bound   in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.50 
eachf  or  $6.00  a  set,  tack  set  is  put  up  in  a  neai  box. 

gambling  Exposed, $1  50  t  The  Reformed  Gambler, $1   50 

The  Gambler's  Life, 1  50  j  Secret  Band  of  Brothers, 1  60 

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T,  B.  PETERSON  a,  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    9 
CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS.    ILLUSTRATED. 

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in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in  Morocco  Cloth,  with  Gilt  Character 

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contained  in  eighteen  volumes,  the  whole   containing   near   Six  Hundrtcl 

IlltutrntwitSy  by  Crnikshank,  Phiz,  Browne,  Maclise,  and  other  artistt. 

The  Pickwick  Papers.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  32  Illustrations,.$l,50 

Nicholas  Nickleby.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  37  Illustrations,....  1  50 

David  Copperfield.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  8  Illustrations, 1  50 

Oliver  Twirt.     By  Cliarlcs  Dickens.     With  24  Illustrations, 150 

Bleak  House.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations, ).  &• 

Dotnhey  and  Son.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations, 1  50 

Sketches  by  "Boz."     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  20  Illustrations,...  1  50 

Little  Dorr'it.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations 150 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  42  Illustrations....  1  50 
Great  Expectations.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  34  Illustrations,...  1  50 
Lamplighter's  Story.  Bv  Charles  Dickens.  With  7  Illustrations,...  1  50 

Barnaby  Rudge.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  50  Illustrations 1  50 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  8  Illustrations, 1  50 

Old  Curiosity  Shop.     Bv  Chnrles  Dickens.     With  101  Illustrations,.  1  50 

Christmas  Stories.     By  "Charles  Dickens.     With  12  Illustrations, 150 

Dickens' New  Stories.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  portrait  of  author,  1  50 
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BOOKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

The  following   books  are  each,      issued    in   one  large    duodecimo    volume, 
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The  Initials.     A  Love  Story.      By  Baroness  Tautphoeus, $1 

Married  Beneath  Him.     Bv  author  of  "  Lost  Sir  Massingberd," 

Margaret  Mainland.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  author  of  "  Zaidee,"...t 

Family  Pride.     By  author  of"  Pique,"  "  Family  Secrets,"  etc 

The  Autobiography  of  Edward  Wortley  Montagu, 

The  Forsaken  Daughter.     A  Companion  to  "Linda," 

Love  and  Liberty.     A  Revolutionary  Story.     By  Alexander  Dumas, 

The  Morrisons.     By  Mrs.  Margaret  Hosmer, 

The  Rich  Husband.     By  author  of  "  George  Geith," 

The  Lost  Beauty.     By  a  Noted  Lady  of  the  Spanish  Court, 

My  Hero.     By  Mrs.  Forrester.     A  Charming  Love  Story, 

The  Quaker  Soldier.  A  Revolutionary  Romance.  By  Judge  Jones,.... 
Memoirs  of  Vidocq,  the  French  Detective.  His  Life  and  Adventures, 
The  Belle  of  Washington.  With  her  Portrait.  By  Mrs.  N.  P.  Lasselle, 
High  Life  in  Washington.  A  Life  Picture.  By  Mrs.  N.  P.  turn-He, 
Courtship  and  Matrimony.  By  Robert  Morris.  With  a  Portrait,... 

The  Jealous  Husband.     By  Annette  Marie  Maiilard, 

The  Conscript;  or,  the  Days  of  Napoleon  1st.     By  Alex.  Dumas 1   51 

Cousin  Harry.  By  Mrs.  Grey,  author  of  "The  Gambler's  Wife,"  etc.  1  60 
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8  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS, 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

Tin   following    book*  are   each   issued    in    one    large    duodecimo 

bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.    By  Dumas.    Illustrated,  paper  $1  00,..$J   M 
The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.     Paper  cover,  price  $1.00 ;  or  cloth,.. 

Cumille;  or,  the  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     By  Alexander  Dumas, 

Love  and  Money,  By  J.  B.  Jones,  author  of  the  "  Rival  Belle?,"... 
The  Brother's  Secret ;  or,  the  Count  De  Mara.  By  William  Godwin, 
The  Lost  Lore.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  author  of  "  Margaret  Maitlnnd," 

The  Bohemians  of  London.     By  Edward  M.  Whitty, 

ffild  Sports  and  Adventures  in  Africa.     By  Major  W.  C.  Harris, 

The  Lite,  Writings,  and  Lectures  of  the  late  "  Fanny  Fern," 

The  Life  and  Lectures  of  Lola  Montez,  with  her  portrait, 

Wild  Southern  Scenes.     By  author  of  "  Wild  Western  Scenes," 

Currer  Lyle;  or,  the  Autobiography  of  an  Actress.  By  Louise  lleeder. 

The  Cahin  and  Parlor.     By  J.  Thornton  Randolph.     Illustrated, 

The  Little  Beauty.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Grey 

Lizzie  Glenn;  or,  the  Trials  of  a  Seamstress.     By  T.  S.  Arthur 

Lady  Maud  ;  or,  the  Wonder  of  Kingswood  Chase.    By  Pierce  Egan, 

Wilfred  Montressor  ;  or,  High  Life  in  New  York.     Illustrated, 

Lorrimer  Littlegood,  by  author  "  Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship," 

Married  at  Last.     A  Love  Story.     By  Annie  Thoma?, 

Shoulder  Straps.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Days  of  Shoddy," 
Days  of  Shoddy.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps," 

The  Coward.     By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder  Strap?," 

Above  books  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
The  Roman  Traitor.  By  Henry  William  Herbert.  A  Roman  Story, 
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The  Master  of  Greylands.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood, 75 

Dene  Hollow.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of"  Wirhin  the  Maze,"  7* 

Bessy  Rane.    By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  The  Channings,"....  75 

George  Canterbury's  Will.     By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  "Oswald  Cray,"  75 

The  Cbannings.   By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Dene  Hollow,"...  75 

Roland  Yorke.     A  Sequel  to  "  The  Channings."    By  Mrs.  Wood, 75 

Shadow  of  Ashlydyatt.     By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "Bessy  Rane,"....  75 

Lord  Oakburn's  Daughters;  or  The  Earl's  Heirs.     By  Mrs.  Wood,...  7i 

Verner's  Pride.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  The  Channings,"  75 

The  Castle's  Heir;  or  Lady  Adelaide's  Oath.    By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  7* 

Oswald  Cray.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Roland  Yorke,"....  75 

Squire  Trevlyn's  Heir;  or  Trevlyn  Hold.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood, 75 

The  Red  Court  Farm.     By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "  Verner's  Pride,"  7* 

Elster's  Folly.     By  Mrs.  Henry  AVood,  author  of  "  Castle's  Heir,"...  75 

Bt.  Martin's  Eve.     By  Mrs.  Henry  AVood,  author  of  "  Dene  Hollow,';  7* 

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I  : *-.•-*-» 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    7 
ALEXANDER  DUMAS'  ROMANCES,  IN  CLOTH. 

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each  issued  in  large  octavo  volume.*,  bound  in  cloth,  price  $1.50  eacA. 
The  Three  Guardsmen  ;  or.  The  Three  Mousquetaires.  By  A.  Dumas, $1  £ 0 
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Bragelonne;  S..D  of  Athos  ;  or  "  Third  Series  of  Three  Guardsmen,"  L  50 
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Queen's  Necklace;  or  "  Second  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician," 
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The  Chevalier.  The  Sequel  'to  "Andree  De  Tavemey."  Being  ihe 

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The  Adventures  of  a  Marquis.     By  Alexander  Dumas, 

The  Forty-Five  Guardsmen.  By  Alexander  Dumas.  Illustrated,... 
Diana  of  Meridor,  or  Lady  of  Monsoreau.  By  Alexander  Dumas.... 
The  Iron  Hand.  By  Alex.  Dumas,  author  "Count  of  Monte-Cristo," 

Camille;  or  the  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     (La  Dame  aux  Cameliits,) 

The  Conscript.     A  novel  of  the  Days  of  Napoleon  the  First, 

Love  and  Liberty.     A  novel  of  the  French  Revolution  of  I7y2-I7«3y 

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The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.  The  Cotnpsmion  to  "  Monte-Cristo." 
The  \\  ife  of  Monte-Cristo.  Continuation  of  '-Count  of  Monte-Crisio," 
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4    T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST   AUTHORS. 

TJie  following:  books  are  each  ismied  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in 
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The  Quaker  City;  or,  the  Monks  of  Monk  Hall.     By  George  Lippard,  2  00 

Blanche  of  Brandywino.     By  George  Lippard, 2  (IB 

Paul  Ardenheitn;  the  Monk  of  Wissnhickon.     By  George  Lippard,.  2  00 
The  Mysteries  of  Florence.  By  Geo.  Lippard,  author  "  Quaker  City,"  2  00 

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Harry  Lorrequer.    With  his  Confessions.    By  Charles  Lever,. ..Cloth, 

Jack  Hinton,  the  Guardsman.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth, 

Davenport  Dunn.     A  Man  of  Oar  Day.     By  Charles  Lever,. ..Cloth, 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth, 

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Arthur  O'Leary.     By  Charl^p  Lever, Cloth, 

Con  Cregan.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth, 

Horace  Templeton.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth, 

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Judge  Halibut-ton's  Yankee  Stories.     Illustrated, 


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A  Speculator  in  Petticoats.    By  Hector  Mttlot.  Paper,  75  els.,  cloth,  $1  25 

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Consuelo.     By  George  Sand.     One  volume,  12mo.,  bound  in  cloth, ...  50 

The  Countess  of  Rudols'adt.     Sequel  to  "  Consuelo."     12mo.,  cloth,..  50 

Indiana.     A  Novel.     By  George  Sind,  author  of"  Consuelo,"  cloth,  50 

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Twelve  Years  of  My  Life.     By  Mrs.  B.  Benumont,  cloth, 50 

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The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     By  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  cloth,  50 

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without  a  Teacher.     By  A.  H.  Monteith.     One  volume,  cloth 2  00 

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12  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATION. 
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Ishmael;  or,  in  the  Depths — being  "Self-Made;  or,  Out  of  the  Depths." 

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The  Bride  of  an  Evening;  or,  The  Gipsy's  Prophecy. 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  13 


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R'uidith  ;  or.  Thirty-three  Years  in  a  Star.     By  Florence  C.  Dieudonne'. 
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Hcssie's   Six   Lovers.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Peterson. 
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Not  His  Daughter.     A  Society  Novel.     By  Will  Herbert. 
A  Bohemian  Tragedy.     A  Novel  of  New  York  Life.     By  L:!y  Curry. 
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Two  Kisses.     A  Bright  and  Snappy  Love  Story.     By  Hav?ley  Smart. 
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A  Parisian  Romance.      Octave  Veniltet's  New  Book,  jn»t  dramatized. 
Fanchon,  the  Cricket ;  or,  La  Petite  Fadette.     By  George  Sand. 
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The  Matchmaker.     By  Beatrice  Reynolds.     A  Charming  Love  Story. 
The  Story  of  Elizabeth.    By  Miss  Thackeray,  (laughter  of  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
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Rancy  Cottem's  Courtship.     By  author  of"  Major  Jones's  Courtship." 
A  Woman's  Mistake;  or,  Jacques  de  Trevannes.     A  Perfect  L<>ve  Story. 
The  Days  of  Madame  Pompadour.    A  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Louis  XV. 
The  Little  Countess.     By  Octave  Feuillet,  author  of  "  Count  De  Cainors." 
The  American  L'Assomuaoir.     A  parody  on  Zola's  "  L'Assommoir." 
Hyde  Park  Sketches.     A  very  humorous  and  entertaining  work. 
Mis?  Margery's  Roses.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Robert  C.  Meyers. 
Madeleine.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     Jules  Sandeau's  Prize  Novel. 
C-irmen.     By  Prosper  Merimee.     Book  the  Opera  teas  dramatized  from. 
That  Girl  of  Mine.     Bv  the  author  of  "  That  Lover  of  Mine." 
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The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo.     Continuation  of  "  Count  of  Monte-Cristo." 
The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.     The  Sequel  to  '•  The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo." 
Camille;  or,  The  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     (La  Dame  Aux  Camelias.) 
Married  Above  Her.     A  Society  Romance.     By  a  Lady  of  New  York. 
The  Man  from  Texas.     A  Powerful  Western  Romance,  full  of  adventure. 
Erring,  Yet  Noble.     A  Book  of  Women  and  for  Vornen.     By  I.  G.  Reed. 
The  Fair  Enchantress;  or,  How  She  Won  Men's  Hearts.    By  Miss  Keller. 

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Major  Jones's  Courtship.  21  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1  04 
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A  Russian  Princess.  By  Emmanuel  Gonzales.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth.  $1.00. 
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Madame  Bovary.  By  Gustave  Flaubert.  Paper,  75  tents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Count  de  Camors.  liy  Octave  Feuillet.  Paper,  75  <-ents,  cloth.  SI. 2 5, 
How  She  Won  Him  !  A  Love  Story.  Paper  cover,  7f  cent?,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Angele's  Fortune.  By  Andre  Theuriet.  Paper  cover,  7i  wiits,  cloth,  $1.25. 
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,  fee  Earl  of  Mayfield.     liy  Thomas  P.  May.     Paper,  75  cer.tg.  cloch,  $1.«4. 

MRS.  F.  H.  BURNETT'S  NOVELLETTES. 

Kathleen.     A  Lcve  Story.     Bv  author  of  "That  Lass  o'  Lowries." 
Theo.     A  Love  Story.     By  author  of  "  Kathleen,"  «  Miss  Crespigny,"  t*; 
|  Lindsay's  Luck.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
?retty  Polly  Pemberron.     By  author  of  "  Kathleen,"  "  Theo,';  etc. 
A  Quiet  Life,     By  Mrs.  Burnet',,  author  of  "That  Lass  o'  Lowries." 
Miss  Crespigny,  also  Jarl's  Daughter.     By  Mrs.  Burnott, 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  13 
HENRY  GREVILLE'S  CHARMIITG  NOVELS. 

The  Princess  Roubine.     A  Jiniiimi  Love  Story.     By  Henry   Grieijle. 
Dosia.     A  Rnxslan  Slon,.      By  Henri/  (ireriHe,  author  of  "  Markof." 
Saveii's  Expiation.     A  Powerful  Russian  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Tania's  Peril.     A  Russian  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Son  in.     A  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville,  tiutbor  of  "Dosia." 
Lucie  Rodey.     A  Charming  Society  Novel.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Bonne-Marie.     A  Tale  of  Normandy  und  Paris.     By  Henry  GreVilla. 
Xenie's  Inheritance.     A  Tale  of  Russian  Life.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Dournof.     A  Russian  Story.     By  Henry  Greville,  nuthor  of  "Dosia." 
Mum'zelle  Eugenie.     A  Russian  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Gabrielle;  or,  The  House  of  Maureze.     By  Henry  Greville. 
A  Friend;  or,  "L'Auii."     By  Henry  Greville,  author  of  "Dosia." 

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Zitka ;  or,  The  Trials  of  Raissa.     A  Russian  Love  Story,  from  which  tha 

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The  Princess  Ogherof.     A  Lore  Story.     By  Henry  Grevtlle. 

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Marrving  Off  a  Daughter.     A  Love  Story.      B,/  Henry  Gierille. 
Svlvie's  Betrothed.     A  Ch'armiiiy  Novel.     By  Henri/  Grerille. 
Philomene's   Marriages.     A  Love  Story.     By   Hen'nj    Grecil/e. 
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THE  "COUNT  OF  MONTE-CRISTO  SERIES." 

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Edmond  Dantes.  Sequel  to  "  Monte-Cristo."  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  £1  25. 
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BOOKS  BY  AUTHOR  OF  'A  HEART  TWICE  WON." 

A  Heart  Twice  Won;  or,  Second  Love.  A  Love  Story.  By  MIS.  Eliza- 
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The  Shadow  of  Hampton  Mead.  A  Charming  F'ory.  By  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
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The  Mystery  of  Allanwold.  A  Thrilling  Novel.  By  Mr*.  Elizabeth  Van 
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I'he  Last  Athenian.  By  Victor  Rydberg.  Translated  from  Ac  Swedish. 
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Fruncatelli's  Modern  Cook  Book  for  1888.  Enlai-gol  Edition.  With  the 
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MBS.  EMMA  EKjyOOTORTES  WXSL 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  have  jvst  pub- 
Hiked  an  entire  new,  complete  and  uniform  edition  of  all  of  the  cele- 
brated works  written,  by  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  This  edition 
w  in  duodecimo  form,  is  printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  is  complete 
in  forty-three  volumes,  and  each  volume  is  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  with 
a  full  gift  back,  and  is  sold  at  the  low  price  of  $1.50  a  volume,  or  $64.50 
for  a  full  and  complete  set.  Every  Family,  and  every  Library  in  this 
Co  ant -y  should  have  in  it  a  complete  set  of  this  new  edition  of  <Aa 
Mirks  ,f  Mrs.  Soutkworth.  The  following  are  the  names  of  the  volumttg 

THE  PHANTOM  WEDDING;  or,  the  Fall  of  the  House  of  Fll.o! 
SELF-RAISED;  or,  From  the  Depths.  Sequel  to  "  Ishmael." 
ISHMAEL;  or,  IN  THE   DEPTHS.     (Being  "  Self-Made.") 
THE  "MOTHER-IN-LAW;"   OP,   MARRIED  IN  HASTE. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;    OP,    MIRIAM,  THE  AVENGER. 
VICTOR'S  TR5UMPH.     Sequel  to  "A  Beautiful  Fiend." 
A  BEAUTIFUL  FIEND;    OP,  THROUGH  THE  FIRE. 

LADY  OF  THE  ISLE;    OP,   THE   ISLAND   PRINCESS. 
FAIR  PLAY;   OP,  BRITOMARTE,   THE  MAN-HATER. 
HOW  HE  WON  HER.     A  Sequel  to  "Fair  Play." 
THE  CHANGED  BRIDES;  or,  Winning  Her  Way. 

THE  BRIDE  S  FATE.  Sequel  to  "The  Changed  Brides." 
CRU2L  AS  THE  GRAVE;    or,  Hallow  Eve  Mystery. 
TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE.    A  Sequel  to  "Cruel  as  the  Grave." 
THE  CHRISTMAS  GUEST;  or,  The  Crime  and  the Cur$«. 

THE  BRIDE  OF  LLEWELLYN. 

THE  LOST  HEIR  OF  LINLITHGOW;    or,  The  Brothers. 
A  NOBLE  LORD.     Sequel  to  "  Lost  Heir  of  Linlithgow." 
THE  FAMILY  DOOM:  or,   THE  SIN  OF  A  COUNTESS. 

THE  MAIDEN  WIDOW.      Sequel  to  "  Family  Doom." 
THE  GIPSY'S  PROPHECY;  or,  The  Bride  of  an  Evening. 
THE  FORTUNE  SEEKER  ;   or,  Astrea,  The  Bridal  Day. 
THE  THREE  BEAUTIES  ;  or,  SHANNONDALE. 

ALLWORTH  ABBEY;   or,  EUDORA. 
FALLEN  PRIDE;  or,  THE    MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LOVE. 
INDIA;   or,  THE  PEARL   OF  PEARL  RIVER. 
VIVIA;   or,  THE  SECRET  OF  POWER. 

THE  BRIDAL   EVE;   or,    ROSE    ELMER. 
THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER;   or,  The  Children  of  th«  lile, 
THE  PRINCE  OF  DARKNESS  ;   or,  HICKORY  HALL. 

THE   TWO   SISTERS;   or,    Virginia  and  Magdalene. 
THE   FATAL   MARRIAGE;    or,    ORVILLE   DEVILLE. 
THE   WIDOW'S   SON:    cr,    LEFT   ALONE. 

THE   MYSTERY    OF   DARK    HOLLOW. 
THE  DESERTED  WIFE.  THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY. 

THE  LOST  HEIRESS.  THE  ARTIST'S  LOVE. 

THE  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD.     LOVE'S  LABOR  WON. 
THE  SPECTRE  LOVER.  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON, 

THE  FATAL  SECRET.  RETRIBUTION. 

pST  Above  books  are  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  copies  will  be  »er* 
to  any  one,  at  once,  post-paid,  on  remitting  price  of  ones  wanted  tit 

T,  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Publisher*, 
306  CHESTNUT  STREET.  P": 


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